THE SCHUYLER HOUSEHOLD
As for me, I began to collect my senses after the shock of learning
the true identity of the dead man. Though I had never met him,
Randolph Schuyler was a client and friend of my partner, Charles
Bradbury, and I suddenly felt a sort of personal responsibility of
action.
For one thing, I disliked the idea of Mr. Schuyler's wife and family
receiving the first tidings of the tragedy from the police. It seemed
to me a friend ought to break the news, if possible.
I said as much to Coroner Fenn, and he agreed.
"That's so," he said. "It'll be an awful errand. In the middle of the
night, too. If you're acquainted, suppose you go there with the boys,
Mr. Calhoun."
"I'm not personally acquainted, but Mr. Schuyler is my partner's
client, though there's been little business of his with our firm of
late. But, as a matter of humanity, I'll go, if you say so, and be of
any help I can."
"Go, by all means. Probably they'll be glad of your advice and
assistance in many ways."
I dreaded the errand, yet I thought if the police had had to go and
tell Winnie and Aunt Lucy any such awful news, how glad they'd be to
have somebody present of their own world, even of their own
neighborhood. So I went.
As we had been told, the Schuyler house was only a few doors below the
Avenue corner. Even as Mason rang the bell, I was thinking how strange
that a man should go to a house where he desired to conceal his own
name, when it was so near his own dwelling.
And yet, I knew, too, that the houses on Fifth Avenue are as far
removed from houses just off the Avenue, as if they were in a
different town.
Mason's ring was answered by a keen-eyed man of imperturbable
countenance.
"What's wanted?" he said, gazing calmly at the policemen.
"Where is Mr. Schuyler?" asked the inspector, in a matter-of-fact way.
"He's out," said the man, respectfully enough, but of no mind to be
loquacious.
"Where?"
"I don't know. He went to his club after dinner, and has not yet
returned."
"Are you his valet?"
"Yes, I wait up for him. He comes in with his key. I've no idea when
he will return."
"Is his wife at home?"
"Yes, Mrs. Schuyler is at home." Clearly, this man was answering
questions only because he recognized the authority that asked them.
But he volunteered no information.
"Who else is in the family? Children?"
"No, Mr. Schuyler has no children. His two sisters are here, and Mrs.
Schuyler. That is all."
"They are all in bed?"
"Yes, sir. Has anything happened to Mr. Schuyler?"
"Yes, there has. Mr. Schuyler is dead."
"Dead!" The imperturbable calm gave way, and the valet became
nervously excited. "What do you mean? Where is he? Shall I go to him?"
"We will come in," said Lowney, for until now, we had stood outside.
"Then we will tell you. Are any of the other servants about?"
"No, sir, they are all in bed."
"Then--what is your name?"
"Cooper, sir."
"Then, Cooper, call the butler, or whoever is in general charge.
And--summon Mrs. Schuyler."
"I'll call Jepson, he's the butler, sir. And I'll call Mrs. Schuyler's
maid, Tibbetts, if she's in. And the maid, Hester, who waits on the
Misses Schuyler. Shall I?"
"Yes, get things started. Get Jepson as soon as you can."
"This is an awful affair," said Mason, as Cooper went off. We were in
the hall, a great apartment more like a room, save that a broad
staircase curved up at one side. The furnishings were magnificent, but
in a taste heavily ornate and a little old-fashioned. There were
carved and upholstered benches, but none of us cared to sit. The
tension was too great.
"Keep your eyes open, Lowney," he went on. "There's lots to be picked
up from servants, before they're really on their guard. Get all you
can about Mr. Schuyler's evening habits from the man, Cooper. But go
easy with the ladies. It's hard enough for them at best."
The valet reappeared with Jepson. This butler was of the accepted
type, portly and important, but the staggering news Cooper had
evidently told him, had made him a man among men.
"What's this?" he said, gravely. "The master dead? Apoplexy?"
"No, Jepson. Mr. Schuyler was killed by some one. We don't know who
did it."
"Killed! Murdered! My God!" The butler spoke in a strong, low voice
with no hint of dramatic effect. "How will Mrs. Schuyler bear it?"
"How shall we tell her, Jepson?" Mason showed a consultant air, for
the butler was so evidently a man of judgment and sense.
"We must waken her maid, and let her rouse Mrs. Schuyler. Then the
other ladies, Mr. Schuyler's sisters, we must _call_ them."
"Yes, Jepson, do all those things, as quickly as you can."
But the wait seemed interminable.
At last the butler came back, and asked us up to the library, the
front room on the floor above. Here a footman was lighting a fire on
the hearth, for the house had the chill of the small hours.
First came the two sisters. These ladies, though not elderly, were
middle-aged, and perhaps, a few years older than their brother. They
were austere and prim, of aristocratic features and patrician air.
But they were almost hysterical in their excitement. A distressed
maid hovered behind them with sal volatile. The ladies were fully
attired, but caps on their heads and woolly wraps flung round them
bore witness to hasty dressing.
"What is it?" cried Miss Rhoda, the younger of the two. "What has
happened to Randolph?"
I introduced myself to them. I told them, as gently as I could, the
bare facts, deeming it wise to make no prevarication.
So raptly did they listen and so earnestly did I try to omit horrible
details, and yet tell the truth, that I did not hear Mrs. Schuyler
enter the room. But she did come in, and heard also, the story as I
told it.
"Can it not be," I heard a soft voice behind me say, "can it not yet
be there is some mistake? Who says that man is my husband?"
I turned to see the white face and clenched hands of Randolph
Schuyler's widow. She was holding herself together, and trying to get
a gleam of hope from uncertainty.
If I had felt pity and sorrow for her before I saw her, it was doubly
poignant now.
Ruth Schuyler was one of those gentle, appealing women, helplessly
feminine in emergency. Her frightened, grief-stricken eyes looked out
of a small, pale face, and her bloodless lips quivered as she caught
them between her teeth in an effort to preserve her self-control.
"I am Chester Calhoun," I said, and she bowed in acknowledgment. "I am
junior partner in the firm of Bradbury and Calhoun. Mr. Bradbury is
one of your husband's lawyers and also a friend, so, as circumstances
brought it about, I came here, with Inspector Mason, to tell you--to
tell you--"
Mrs. Schuyler sank into a seat. Still with that air of determination
to be calm, she gripped the chair arms and said, "I heard you tell
Miss Schuyler that Randolph has been killed. I ask you, may it not be
some one else? Why should he be at a house where people called him by
a name not his own?"
She had heard, then, all I had told the older ladies. For Mrs.
Schuyler was not old. She must be, I thought at once, years younger
than her husband. Perhaps a second wife. I was glad she had heard,
for it saved repeating the awful narrative.
"He has not been identified, Mrs. Schuyler," I said, "except by the
policeman of this precinct, who declares he knows him well."
I was glad to give her this tiny loophole of possibility of mistaken
identity, and she eagerly grasped at it.
"You must make sure," she said, looking at Inspector Mason.
"I'm afraid there's no room for doubt, ma'am, but I'm about to send
the man, the valet, over to see him. Do you wish any one else to
go--from the house?"
Mrs. Schuyler shuddered. "Don't ask me to go," she said, piteously.
"For I can't think it is really Mr. Schuyler--and if it should be--"
"Oh, no ma'am, you needn't go. None of the family, I should say."
Mason looked at the elder ladies.
"No, no," cried Miss Sarah, "we couldn't think of it! But let Jepson
go. He is a most reliable man."
"Yes," said Mrs. Schuyler, "send Cooper and Jepson both. Oh, go
quickly--I cannot bear this suspense!" She turned to me, as the two
men who had been hovering in the doorway, came in to take Mason's
orders. "I thank you, Mr. Calhoun. It was truly kind of you to come.
Tibbetts, get me a wrap, please."
This was Mrs. Schuyler's own maid, who went on the errand at once.
More servants had gathered; one or two footmen, a silly French
parlor-maid or waitress, and from downstairs I heard the hushed voices
of others.
Tibbetts returned, and laid a fleecy white shawl about her mistress'
shoulders. Mrs. Schuyler wore a house dress of dull blue. Her hair of
an ash-blonde hue, was coiled on top of her head; and to my surprise,
when I noticed it, she wore a string of large pearls round her throat,
and on her hands were two rings, each set with an enormous pearl.
I must have been awkward enough to glance at the pearls, for Mrs.
Schuyler remarked, "I dressed so hastily, I kept on my pearls. I wear
them at night sometimes, to preserve their luster."
Then she apparently forgot them, for without self-consciousness she
turned to the detective and began asking questions. Nervously she
inquired concerning minutest details, and I surmised that side by side
with her grief at the tragedy was a very human and feminine dismay at
the thought of her husband, stabbed to death in another woman's house!
"Who is Miss Van Allen?" she asked over and over again, unsatisfied
with the scant information Lowney could give.
"And she lives near here? Just down the side street? Who _is_ she?"
"I don't think she is anyone you ever heard of," I said to her. "She
is a pleasant young woman, and so far as I know, all that is correct
and proper."
"Then why would she have Randolph Schuyler visiting her?" flashed the
retort. "Is that correct and proper?"
"It may be so," I said, for I felt a sort of loyalty to Vicky Van.
"You see, she was not acquainted with Mr. Schuyler until this
evening."
"Why did he go there, then?"
"Steele brought him--Norman Steele."
"I don't know any Mr. Steele."
I began to think that Randolph Schuyler had possessed many
acquaintances of whom his wife knew nothing, and I concluded to see
Bradbury before I revealed any more of Schuyler's affairs.
And then, Lowney began adroitly to put questions instead of answering
them.
He inquired concerning Mr. Schuyler's habits and pursuits, his
recreations and his social life.
All three of the women gave responses to these queries, and I learned
many things.
First, that Randolph Schuyler was one manner of man at home and
another abroad. The household, it was plain to be seen, was one of
most conservative customs and rigidly straightbacked in its
conventions.
Mrs. Schuyler was not a second wife. She had been married about seven
years, and had lived the last five of them in the house we were now
in. She was much younger than her husband, and he had, I could see,
kept her from all knowledge of or participation in his Bohemian
tastes. They were the sort of people who have a box at the opera and
are patrons of the best and most exclusive functions of the highest
society. Mrs. Schuyler, after the first shock, recovered her poise,
and though now and then a tremor shook her slight frame, she bore
herself with dignity and calm.
The two maiden ladies also grew quieter, but we all nervously awaited
the return of the butler.
At last he came.
"It's the master, Madame," he said, simply, to his mistress as he
entered the room. "He is dead."
The deferential gravity of his tone impressed me anew with the man's
worth, and I felt that the stricken wife had a tower of strength in
the faithful servitor.
"I left Cooper there, Madame," he went on. "They--they will not bring
Mr. Schuyler home tonight. In the morning, perhaps. And now, Madame,
will you not go to rest? I will be at the service of these gentlemen."
It seemed cruel to torture them further that night, and the three
ladies were dismissed by Lowney, and, attended by their maids, they
left us.
"Now, Jepson," Lowney began, "tell us all you know about Mr.
Schuyler's doings. I daresay you know as much as the valet does. Was
Mr. Schuyler as a man of the world, different from his life in this
house?"
Jepson looked perturbed. "That's not for me to say, sir."
"Oh, yes, it is, my man. The law asks you, and it is for you to tell
all you know."
"Well, then," and the butler weighed his words, "my master was always
most strict of habit in his home. The ladies are very reserved, and
abide by rules and standards, that are, if I may say so, out of date
to-day. But, though Mr. Schuyler was by no means a gay man or a member
of any fast set, yet I have reason to think, sir, that at times he
might go to places where he would not take Mrs. Schuyler, and where he
would not wish Mrs. Schuyler to know he had been himself."
"That's enough," said Lowney. "I've got his number. Now, Jepson, had
your master any enemies, that you know of?"
"Not that I know of. But I know nothing of Mr. Schuyler's affairs. I
see him go out of an evening, and I may notice that he comes in very
late, but as to his friends or enemies, I know nothing at all. I am
not one to pry, sir, and my master has always trusted me. I have
endeavored not to betray that trust."
This might have sounded pharisaical in a man of less sincerity of
speech. But Jepson's clear, straightforward eyes forbade any doubt of
his honesty and truth.
Again I was glad that Mrs. Schuyler had this staunch helper at her
side, for I foresaw troublous times in store for her.
"And you never heard of this Miss Van Allen? Never was in her house
before?"
"Never, sir. I know nothing of the houses on the side blocks." I
winced at this. "Of course, I know the people who come to this house,
but there is among them no Miss Van Allen."
"Rather not!" I thought to myself. And then I sighed at the memory of
Vicky Van. Had she killed this millionaire? And if so, why?
I was sure Vicky had never met Randolph Schuyler before that evening.
I had seen their meeting, and it was too surely the glance of stranger
to stranger that had passed between them, to make a previous
acquaintance possible. Vicky had been charming to him, as she always
was to every one, but she showed no special interest, and if she did
really kill him, it was some unguessable motive that prompted the
deed.
I thought it over. Schuyler, at the club, dined and wined, had perhaps
heard Norman Steele extol the charms of Vicky Van. Interested, he had
asked to be taken to Vicky's house, but, as it was so near his own, a
sense of precaution led him to adopt another name.
Then the inexplicable sequel!
And the mysterious disappearance of Vicky herself.
Though, of course, the girl would return. As Mrs. Reeves had said,
doubtless she had witnessed the crime, and, scared out of her wits,
had run away. Her return would clear up the matter.
Then the waiter's story?
Well, there was much to be done. And, as I suddenly bethought me, it
was time I, myself went home!
As I passed Vicky Van's house, on my way home, I saw lights pretty
much all over it, and was strongly tempted to go in. But common sense
told me I needed rest, and not only did I have many matters to attend
to on the morrow, but I had to tell the story to Aunt Lucy and Winnie!
That, of itself, would require some thought and tactful management,
for I was not willing to have them condemn Vicky Van entirely, and
yet, I could think of no argument to put forth for the girl's
innocence.
Time alone must tell.