THE EVIDENCE OF THE CHECKBOOK
Winston Bannard's apartments in New York were comfortable though not
luxurious. The Caxton Annex catered to young bachelors who were not
millionaires but who liked to live pleasantly, and Bannard had been
contentedly ensconced there ever since he had left his aunt's home.
He had always been glad he had made the move, for the city life was far
more to his liking than the village ways of Berrien, and if his law
practice could not be called enormous, it was growing and he had
developed some real ability.
Of late he had fallen in with a crowd of men much richer than himself,
and association with them had led to extravagance in the matter of cards
for high stakes, motors of high cost, and high living generally.
The high cost of living is undeniable, and Bannard not infrequently
found himself in financial difficulties of more or less depth and
importance.
As he entered his rooms Sunday evening about seven, he found a telegram
and a telephone notice from the hotel office. The latter merely
informed him that Berrien, Connecticut, had called him at four o'clock.
The telegram read:
"For Heaven's sake come up here at once. Aunt Ursula is dead."
It was signed Iris, and Bannard read it, standing by the window to catch
the gleams of fading daylight. Then he sank into a chair, and read it
over again, though he now knew it by rote.
He was not at all stunned. His alert mind traveled quickly from one
thought to another, and for ten minutes his tense, strained position,
his set jaw and his occasionally winking eyes betokened successive
cogitations on matters of vital importance.
Then he jumped up, looked at his watch, consulted a time-table, and, not
waiting for an elevator, ran down the stairs through that atmosphere of
Sunday afternoon quiet, which is perhaps nowhere more noticeable than in
a city hotel.
A taxicab, a barely caught train, and before nine o'clock Winston
Bannard was at the Berrien railroad station.
Campbell was there to meet him, and as they drove to the house Bannard
sat beside the chauffeur that he might learn details of the tragedy.
"But I don't understand, Campbell," Bannard said, "how could she be
murdered, alone in her room, with the door locked? Did she--didn't
she--kill herself?"
But the chauffeur was close-mouthed. "I don't know, Mr. Bannard," he
returned, "it's all mighty queer, and the detective told me not to
gossip or chatter about it at all."
"But, my stars! man, it isn't gossip to tell _me_ all there is to tell."
"But there's nothing to tell. The bare facts you know--I've told you
those; as to the rest, the police or Miss Iris must tell you."
"You're right," agreed Bannard. "I'm glad you are not inclined to guess
or surmise. There must be some explanation, of course. How about the
windows?"
"Well, you know those windows, Mr. Bannard. They're as securely barred
as the ones in the bank, and more so. Ever since Mrs. Pell took that
room for her treasure room, about eight or ten years ago, they've been
protected by steel lattice work and that's untouched. That settles the
windows, and there's only the one door, and that Purdy and I broke open.
Now, that's all I know about it."
Bannard relapsed into silence, and Campbell didn't speak again until
they reached the house.
"Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" was the first greeting to the young man
as he entered the hall at Pellbrook. It was spoken by Mrs. Bowen, who
had been with Iris ever since she was summoned by telephone, that
afternoon. "It's all so dreadful,--the doctors are examining the body
now--and the coroner is here--and two detectives--and Iris is so
queer----" the poor little lady quite broke down, in her relief at
having some one to share her responsibility.
"Isn't Mr. Bowen here?" Bannard said, as he followed her into the
living-room.
"No, he had to attend service, he'll come after church. Here is Iris."
The girl did not rise at Bannard's approach, but sat, looking up at him,
her face full of inquiry.
"Where have you been?" she demanded; "why didn't you come sooner? I
telegraphed at four o'clock--I telephoned first, but they said--they
said you were out."
"I was; I only came in at seven, and then I found your messages, and I
caught the first train possible."
"It doesn't matter," said Iris, wearily. "There's nothing you can
do--nothing anybody can do. Oh, Win, it's horrible!"
"Of course it is, Iris. But I'm so in the dark. Tell me all about it."
"Oh, I can't. I can't seem to talk about it. Mrs. Bowen will tell you."
The little lady told all she knew, and then, one of the detectives
appeared to question Bannard. He explained his presence and told who he
was and then asked to go into his aunt's sitting room.
"Not just now," said the man, whose name was Hughes, "the doctors are
busy in there, with the coroner."
"Why so late," asked Bannard; "what have they been doing all the
afternoon?"
"Doctor Littell came at once," explained Mrs. Bowen, "he's her own
doctor, you know. But that coroner, Doctor Timken, never got here till
this evening. Why, here's Mr. Chapin!"
Charles Chapin, who was Mrs. Pell's lawyer, entered, and also Mr. Bowen,
so there was quite a group in waiting when the doctors came out of the
closed room.
"It's the strangest case imaginable," said Coroner Timken, his face
white and terrified. "There's not the least possibility of suicide--and
yet there's no explanation for a murder."
"Why do you say that?" asked Chapin, who had heard little of the
details.
"The body is terribly injured. There are livid bruises on her chest,
shoulders and upper arms. There are marks on her wrists, as if she had
been bound by ropes, and similar marks on her ankles."
"Incredible!" cried Mr. Chapin. "Bound?"
"The marks can mean nothing else. They are as if cords had been tightly
drawn, and on one ankle the stocking is slightly stained with blood."
"What?" exclaimed Mrs. Bowen.
"Yes, and the flesh beneath the stain is abraded round the ankle, and
the skin broken. The other ankle shows slight marks of the cord, but it
did not cut into the flesh on that side. Her wrists, too, show red marks
and indentations, as of cords. It is inexplicable."
"But the bruises?" pursued Mr. Chapin, "and the awful wound on her
face?"
"There is no doubt that she was attacked for the purpose of robbery.
Moreover, the thief was looking for something in particular. It is clear
that he stole money or valuables, but the state of the desk and safe
prove a desperate hunt for some paper or article of special value. Also
the pocket, cut and torn from the skirt, proves a determination to
secure the treasure. As we reconstruct the crime, the intruder
intimidated Mrs. Pell by threats and by physical violence; tied her
while search was made through her room; and then, in a rage of
disappointment, flung the old lady to the floor, where she hit her head
on a sharp-pointed brass knob of the fender. This penetrated her temple
and caused her death. These things are facts; also the state of the
room, the overturned table and chairs, the broken lamp, the ransacked
desk and safe--all these are facts; but what theory can account for the
disappearance of the murderer from the locked room?"
There was no answer until Detective Hughes said, "I've always been told
that the more mysterious and insoluble a crime seems to be, the easier
it is to solve it."
"You have, eh?" returned the coroner; "then get busy on this one. It's
beyond me. Why, that woman's wrist is sprained, if not broken, she has
some internal injuries and she was suffering from shock and fright. The
attack was diabolical! It may be that the murder was unpremeditated, but
the mauling and bruising of the old lady was the work of a strong man
and a hardened wretch."
"Why didn't she scream sooner?" asked Hughes, who was listening
intently. He had been detailed on other duties while his confreres
investigated the scene of the crime.
"Gagged, probably," answered Timken. "There are slight marks at the
corners of her mouth which indicate a gag was used, for a time at least.
How long was it," he said abruptly, turning to Iris, "that your aunt was
in that room alone? I mean alone, so far as you knew?"
"I don't know; I was up in my own room all the time after dinner, and--I
don't know what time it was when they called me--I seem to have lost all
track of time----"
"Don't bother the girl," said Mrs. Bowen. "Polly, you tell about the
time."
The servants were in and out of the room, now clustered at the doorway,
now hurrying off on errands and back again.
"It musta been about ha' past three when I heard her scream," said
Polly, "or maybe a bit earlier, but not much. I was in the dining room,
settin' the sideboard to rights after dinner, and I heard her holler."
"And you went to the door at once?"
"Yes; just 's quick 's I could. But the door was locked----"
"Was that usual?"
"Yes, sir, she often locks it when she takes a nap Sunday afternoons.
And then I went and called Purdy, and we couldn't get in."
"Yes, I know about the barred windows and so on. Did you hear any
further sounds from Mrs. Pell?"
"Some; sorta movin' around an' faint moanin's. But the truth is--we
thought she was a foolin' us."
"Fooling you?"
"Yes, sir. Mrs. Pell, she was great for jokin'. Many's the time she's
hollered, 'Help! Polly!' and when I'd get there, she'd laugh fit to kill
at me. She was that way, sir. She was always foolin' us."
"Is this true?" asked Timken, turning to the others.
They all corroborated Polly's statements. Even Chapin, the lawyer, told
of jests and tricks his wealthy client had played on him, and Winston
Bannard declared he had suffered so much from his aunt's whims that he
had been forced to move away.
"And you, Miss Clyde, did she so tease you?"
"Indeed she did," said Iris. "I think I was her favorite victim.
Scarcely a day passed that she did not annoy and distress me by some
practical joke. You know about the ink, this noon----" she turned to
Mrs. Bowen.
"Yes," said that lady, but she looked grave and thoughtful.
"But surely," pursued the coroner, "one could tell the difference
between the screams of a victim in mortal agony, and those of a jest!"
"No, sir," and Polly shook her head. "Mrs. Pell was that clever, she'd
make you think she'd been hurt awful, when she was just trickin' you.
But, any ways, sir, me an' Purdy we did all we could, and we couldn't
get in. Then Campbell, he come, and helped to break down the door----"
"And you're sure the murderer couldn't have slipped through as you
opened the door?"
"Not a chance!" spoke up Campbell. "We smashed it open, the lock just
splintered out of the jamb, as you can see for yourself, and we were all
gathered in a clump on this side. No, sir, the room was quiet as
death--and empty, save for Mrs. Pell, herself."
"And she was dead, then?"
"Yes, sir," asseverated Purdy, solemnly. "I ain't no doctor, but I made
sure she was dead. She'd died within a minute or so, she was most as
warm as in life, and the blood was still a flowin' from her head where
she was struck."
"Did you move anything in the room?"
"No, sir, only so much as was necessary to get around. The table that
was upset had a 'lectric lamp on it, which had a long danglin' green
cord, 'cause it was put in after the reg'lar wirin' was done. I coiled
up that 'ere cord, and picked up the pieces of broken glass, so's we
could step around. But I left the bag and pocket-book and all, just
where they was flung. And the litter from the desk, all over the floor,
I didn't touch that, neither--nor I didn't touch the body."
Purdy's voice faltered and his old eyes filled with tears.
"You did well," commended the coroner, nodding his head kindly at him,
"just one more question. Was Mrs. Pell in her usual good spirits
yesterday? Did she do anything or say anything that seemed out of the
ordinary?"
"No," and Purdy shook his head. "I don't think so, do you, Polly?"
"Not that I noticed," said his wife. "She cut up an awful trick on Miss
Iris, but that wasn't to say unusual."
"What was it?" and the coroner listened to an account of the date with
ink in it. The story was told by Mrs. Bowen, as Iris refused to talk at
all.
"A pretty mean trick," was the coroner's opinion. "Didn't you resent it,
Miss Clyde?"
"She did not," spoke up the rector, in a decided way. "Miss Clyde is a
young woman of too much sense and also of too much affection for her
dear aunt, to resent a good-humored jest----"
"Good-humored jest!" exclaimed Hughes. "Going some! a jest like
that--spoilin' a young girl's pretty Sunday frock----"
"Never mind, Hughes," reproved Timken, "we're not judging Mrs. Pell's
conduct now. This is an investigation, a preliminary inquiry, rather,
but not a judgment seat. Miss Clyde, I must ask that you answer me a
few questions. You left your aunt's presence directly after your guests
had departed?"
"Within a few moments of their leaving."
"She was then in her usual health and good spirits?"
"So far as I know."
"Any conversation passed between you?'
"Only a little."
"Amicable?'
"What do you mean by that?"
"Friendly--affectionate--not quarrelsome."
"It was not exactly affectionate, as I told her I was displeased at her
spoiling my gown."
"Ah. And what did she say?"
"That she would buy me another."
"Did that content you?"
"I wasn't discontented. I was annoyed at her unkind trick, and I told
her so. That is all."
"Of course that is all," again interrupted Mr. Bowen. "I can answer for
the cordial relationship between aunt and niece and I can vouch for the
fact that these merry jests didn't really stir up dissension between
these two estimable people. Why, only to-day, Mrs. Pell was dilating on
the wonderful legacies she meant to bestow on Miss Clyde. She also
referred to a jeweled chalice for my church, but I am sure these
remarks were in no way prompted by any thought of immediate death. On
the contrary, she was in gayer spirits than I have ever seen her."
"I think she was over-excited," said Mrs. Bowen, thoughtfully. "Don't
you, Iris? She was giggling in an almost hysterical manner, it seemed to
me."
"I didn't notice," said Iris, wearily. "Aunt Ursula was a creature of
moods. She was grave or gay without apparent reason. I put up with her
silly jokes usually, but to-day's performance seemed unnecessary and
unkind. However, it doesn't matter now."
"No," declared Winston Bannard, "and it does no good to rake over the
old lady's queer ways. We all know about her habit of playing tricks,
and I, for one, don't wonder that Polly thought she screamed out to
trick somebody. Nor does it matter. If Polly hadn't thought that, she
couldn't have done any more than she did do to get into that room as
soon as possible. Could she, now?"
"No," agreed the coroner. "Nor does it really affect our problem of how
the murder was committed."
"Let me have a look into that room," said Bannard, suddenly.
"You a detective?" asked Timken.
"Not a bit of it, but I want to see its condition."
"Come on in," said the other. "They've put Mrs. Pell's body on the
couch, but, except for that, nothing's been touched."
Hughes went in with Bannard and the coroner, and the three men were
joined by Lawyer Chapin.
Silently they took in the details. The still figure on the couch, with
face solemnly covered, seemed to make conversation undesirable.
Hughes alertly moved about peering at things but touching almost
nothing. Bannard and Mr. Chapin stood motionless gazing at the evidences
of crime.
"Got a cigarette?" whispered Hughes to Bannard and mechanically the
young man took out his case and offered it. The detective took one and
then continued his minute examination of the room and its appointments.
At last he sat down in front of the desk and began to look through such
papers as remained in place. There were many pigeonholes and
compartments, which held small memorandum books and old letters and
stationery.
Hughes opened and closed several books, and then suddenly turned to
Bannard with this question.
"You haven't been up here to-day, have you, Mr. Bannard? I mean, before
you came up this evening."
"N-no, certainly not," was the answer, and the man looked decidedly
annoyed. "What are you getting at, Mr. Hughes?"
"Oh, nothing. Where have you been all day, Mr. Bannard?"
"In New York city.'
"Not been out of it?"
"I went out this morning for a bicycle ride, my favorite form of
exercise. Am I being quizzed?"
"You are. You state that you were not up here, in this room, this
afternoon, about three o'clock?"
"I certainly do affirm that! Why?"
"Because I observe here on the desk a half-smoked cigarette of the same
kind you just gave me.
"And you think that is incriminating evidence! A little far-fetched, Mr.
Hughes."
"Also, on this chair is a New York paper of to-day's date, and not the
one that is usually taken in this house."
"Indeed!" but Winston Bannard had turned pale.
"And," continued Hughes, holding up a check-book, "this last stub in
Mrs. Pell's check-book shows that she made out to _you to-day_, a check
for five thousand dollars!"
"What!" cried Mr. Chapin.
"Yes, sir, a check stub, in Mrs. Pell's own writing, dated _to-day_!
Where is that check, Mr. Winston Bannard, and when did you get it? And
why did you kill your aunt afterward? What were you searching this room
for? Come, sir, speak up!"