THE INQUEST
The inquest was in progress. In the coroner's courtroom inquiry was
being made in an endeavor to discover who was responsible for the
death of Randolph Schuyler. The funeral of the millionaire had taken
place, and the will had been read, and now the public awaited news of
the action of the police in placing the crime and producing the
criminal.
The case had become a celebrated one, not only because of the
prominence of the victim, but because of the mystery surrounding the
young woman suspected of the deed of murder.
Many voluntary witnesses had come forward with additional information
regarding Victoria Van Allen, but none of these knew anything more of
her relatives or progenitors than I did myself.
Some of these were asked to testify at the inquest, but more were not
so called on, as their testimony was in no way material or vital.
I did not propose to attend all the sessions, myself, but I wanted to
hear the opening queries and learn just how the case was to be
managed.
Doctor Remson told of his examination of Mr. Schuyler's body and
testified that death was practically instantaneous as a result of a
single stab of the short, sharp knife. The knife was produced and
identified. It had been carefully taken care of and had been
photographed to preserve the faint fingermarks, which were on its
handle, and which might or might not be the prints of the murderer's
fingers.
The caterer Fraschini told of his orders for the party supper, and of
the sending of his best and most faithful waiters to attend to the
feast.
Luigi, the head waiter, again went over his story. I had heard this
twice before, but I listened with deep interest, and I realized, that,
granting the truth of his recital, there was no room for doubt of
Vicky Van's guilt.
I hadn't of course, told of seeing her take her mail from the box that
night, nor of her talking to me over the telephone. Should absolute
law and justice call for that information, I might give it up, but at
present, I was awaiting developments.
Vicky had sent me her mailbox key, and I had received it duly, by
mail. It was not sent by parcel post, nor was it registered--these
would have called for the sender's address--but, sent by ordinary
first-class letter post, the flat little key came duly and promptly.
I had not used it yet, the time was not ripe until that same night,
and I intended to say nothing of it, until I had fulfilled my promise,
if, indeed, I ever told of it.
But Luigi's story as I heard it again made me shiver with
apprehension. Surely, since he saw Vicky right there at the moment,
bending over the victim, blood stains on her gown, there could be no
loophole of innocence. Had the murderer been some one else, and had
Vicky known it, she must have made an outcry--must have accused the
guilty party. There was no one whom Vicky loved well enough to wish
to shield. And, too, the guests were all in the big living-room; there
was no one unaccounted for. If Luigi himself, or any of the caterer's
men had by chance done the deed, Vicky wouldn't have run away! There
was no sense in that. So I could see no possible theory but that of
Vicky's actual guilt. Why she did it, was another story. She may have
known Schuyler before, might have known him a long time, might have
had her own reasons for wishing him dead; but all that was outside the
issue of her criminality. There was no eyewitness of the stabbing
itself, but Luigi's presence on the scene an instant later, left no
room for question as to the hand that had held the knife.
The jury seemed to think this. Gravely the men listened to what the
Italian told, and their faces showed what they believed.
Then came the guests of the party. One after another, they told the
same story. All knew Vicky fairly well, as a pleasant acquaintance;
all liked her as a good friend; all enjoyed her as a delightful
hostess; and many told individual instances of Vicky's kind heart and
helping hand. Not infrequently had she lent assistance, both financial
and in other ways, to these friends of hers. Never, they all said, had
they known her to do a mean or deceitful act or to say an unkind or
malicious word.
The men spoke of her as a gay, light-hearted butterfly girl, who was a
coquette, but who stopped short of a real flirtation; the women gave
her such commendation as is rarely given them to their own sex, and
declared that Miss Van Allen was a simple, kindly, generous nature
without a trace of the disposition which causes a woman to be dubbed a
_cat_.
Norman Steele was present. He explained his sudden departure from the
party by the fact that he had to catch an owl train for Chicago. He
said, further, that Randolph Schuyler had asked him to take him around
to Vicky Van's, as he wanted to meet her. But he had asked Steele,
especially, to introduce him as Mr. Somers. He had given no reason for
this, and Steele had thought little of it. Randolph Schuyler was a
man whom his friends obeyed, often without question. I understood
this. Steele was no more of a toady to the millionaire than most men
would be; but a request of Randolph Schuyler's was not to be
thoughtlessly refused, so Steele acquiesced.
He was reticent in further dilating on Schuyler's character. Said he
often called on ladies who could not be called exclusive, but denied
knowledge of definite cases or names.
On the whole, Steele's evidence didn't get us anywhere. We already
knew that Schuyler had gone to Vicky Van's under an assumed name. The
reason for this had little, if anything, to do with what had followed.
A connection of some sort, between Vicky and Mr. Schuyler must be
traced, in order to arrive at her possible motive. A woman does not
stab to kill a chance guest whom she has never met before!
Bert Garrison came next. His talk ran mostly to eulogies of Vicky. The
poor fellow was dead in love with her, and had been for many moons,
but though Vicky favored him more than some others, yet she gave him
no definite encouragement, as he himself ruefully admitted. But he
made a desperate effort to show that a girl of Victoria Van Allen's
high character and fine qualities would be incapable of a base deed.
The coroner smiled a little at Garrison's vehemence, and let him run
on for a time, in praise of the absent Vicky.
At last, he said, "And, why, then, Mr. Garrison, in your opinion has
Miss Van Allen disappeared?"
"The disappearance is not of her own volition," declared Garrison;
"she has been taken away by somebody and held against her will, in
order to make her appear guilty."
This was a new theory. I might have given it serious consideration had
I not had speech with the girl herself. It couldn't be that Vicky was
held captive, since she was at her own house two nights after the
crime. But I could see that the jury, and even the coroner and
detectives were interested in this idea.
"By whom could she possibly, or theoretically, he thus held?" the
coroner asked.
"I don't know. But assuming some intruder effected an entrance and
stabbed Mr. Schuyler, if surprised during or after the act by the
sudden appearance of Miss Van Allen in the dining room, he might in
some way have gotten her out of the house, and still be keeping her in
a hiding-place."
It was perhaps, a possibility, but I didn't see how any intruder could
do all that, without being seen by the waiters. Unless, perchance, the
waiters had been bribed to silence. And that, in the face of Luigi's
earnest, and convincing testimony, I could not believe.
It was a fantastic theory, evolved in the brain of Garrison, for the
purpose of diverting suspicion from Vicky Van. However, it seemed to
impress the coroner, and he made notes as he dismissed the witness.
Cassie Weldon added one bit of new information. She said, though with
evident reluctance, that she had caught a mere glimpse of somebody
running upstairs, just before the waiter had come to call for help.
Cassie had not wanted to testify at all. As she had intimated to me,
it was detrimental to her work as a concert singer to be mixed up in
this affair. But since she had to give her testimony, she apparently
felt it her duty to tell the whole truth.
"How could you see the stairs from the living-room?" asked the
interested coroner.
"I was near the door, and though I was not looking out into the hall,
I had a vague, fleeting impression of somebody running upstairs. I
paid no attention to it, of course, but I am sure somebody did."
"A man or a woman?"
"A woman. That is, I was conscious of a flutter of skirts, but I am
not sure it was Miss Van Allen. I didn't see her clearly enough even
to notice the color of her gown. It was merely a glimpse of some one
flying round the newel post and up the stairs. It might have been a
stranger."
"You mean, if there were some intruder, it may have been a woman, and
not a man?"
"I don't know, I tell you. I can only say I know somebody ran
upstairs. Further than that, I've no idea concerning it."
"It must have been Miss Van Allen," said the coroner, decidedly; "had
it been any other woman, and had she stabbed Mr. Schuyler, Miss Van
Allen would not have disappeared. Now, if this woman who ran upstairs
was Miss Van Allen, she effected an escape from the upper stories. Is
there a skylight exit?"
No one seemed to know, as no one had thought of Vicky Van leaving her
house by such means.
But to me, the idea was ridiculous. A girl, in elaborate evening gown,
clambering out of a skylight trap-door, to where? Not to a neighbor's,
for Vicky Van knew none of the nearby residents. I had heard her say
so, myself. And had she descended into a strange household, and begged
for shelter, it would have become known before this.
Well, anyway, the detective Lowney immediately sent an order to have
the skylight matter looked into and the proceedings went on.
Ariadne Gale was closely questioned as to how she knew of the picture
in the back of Randolph Schuyler's watch. But she declared that he had
shown it to her during their conversation that evening.
"I never saw the man before," said Ariadne, who unlike Cassie Weldon,
rather enjoyed the publicity of the occasion. "I chanced to be about
the first girl he was introduced to, when he came into the house. And
we had a chat, and when I chaffed him a bit on his dignity and
awe-inspiring presence, he refuted it by showing me the picture in his
watch. He said it was a little chorus girl he had taken out to supper
the night before. I could see the picture had been merely tucked in
temporarily, it wasn't neatly pasted in, as a watch-case picture
usually is, and then I chaffed him on his fickleness. Our conversation
was the merest foolery, and a moment after, he went over to be
presented to Miss Van Allen."
"You think they had never met before?"
"I'm sure they had not. They looked at each other with the
conventional politeness of strangers, I know Miss Van Allen well, and
she is not one to dissemble or pretend. I am sure she had never laid
eyes on that man before. She simply _couldn't_ have killed him!"
Ariadne's further evidence amounted to nothing, nor did that of
several other of the party guests who were called on.
Except Mrs. Reeves. She knew more of Vicky's home life than any of the
rest of us, but even she knew nothing of the girl's origin.
She had first met her at one of Miss Gale's studio parties, and had
taken a fancy to her at once.
"Where did _you_ first meet her, Miss Gale," the coroner interrupted
to ask.
"She came to my studio to look at my pictures," was the reply. "She
admired them, and bought one. She was so pleasant and so interested
in my work that she came two or three times, and then I invited her to
one of my little studio affairs. She quickly made friends, and she
invited us to her house. I went there first about two years ago."
"So did I," Mrs. Reeves resumed. "And since then, I have been there
frequently, and every time I saw the girl I liked her better. But she
was always a bit of a mystery. I confess I tried at times, to learn
something of her previous life. But she adroitly evaded my questions,
and cleverly changed the subject. I think, however, from chance hints
she let drop, that her home was somewhere in the Middle West."
"An indefinite term," observed Coroner Fenn.
"It's all I know."
"Where did Miss Van Allen go on her frequent absences from her home?"
"That I don't know, either. Often she'd be away a week, and on her
return would tell of a gay house party down on Long Island or a
week-end trip up Westchester way, but I don't remember any definite
place she visited."
"I do," piped up Ariadne. "She often goes to Greenwich, Connecticut,
and to Bronxville. I've heard her tell of these trips. She has a wide
circle of acquaintances and, of course, she's a favorite with all who
know her."
"I have a piece of evidence," resumed Mrs. Reeves, "which I daresay I
ought to exhibit. It is a letter from Miss Van Allen, which I received
only this morning."
This caused a sensation. A letter from Vicky Van! Just received! I
found myself trembling in my shoes. And I asked myself why. Was I
afraid the girl would be caught? Did I want to shield a felon? And I
had to admit to myself that I did. I wasn't in love with Vicky Van,
but I had a tremendous interest in her, and I didn't want that little
lone, helpless person haled before a court of justice. Vicky did seem
terribly alone. Hosts of friends she had, but no one who was in any
way responsible for her, or in a position to help her. Well, if she
ever returned, voluntarily or perforce, she would find a friend and
champion in one Chester Calhoun, of that I was certain!
Mrs. Reeves handed her letter over to the coroner, and he read it out.
It ran:
My dear Mrs. Reeves:
You have always been such a good friend to me that I'm writing you
just a line. You are everything that is good and kind, and now I'm
going to ask you as a final favor to forget Vicky Van at once and
forever. I am going away and I shall never return. Don't think of me
any more hardly than you must, but if you can keep any loving little
memory of the hours we spent together, I want you to do so. And as a
remembrance, I want you to have my little electric coupe. It is in
Rennard's garage, and I have written him to turn it over to you. I
shall miss our happy times together, but--I can never come back. Do
not worry about me, I am safe.
And I am your affectionate
Vicky Van.
"You are sure this is from Miss Van Allen?" asked Fenn.
"Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Reeves. "There's no mistaking that writing."
Nor was there. I knew Vicky's penmanship, and it was most peculiar.
Never have I seen such a hand. Angular, slightly backhanded, and full
of character, it would be difficult to imitate it, and, too, no one
would have any reason to forge that letter to Mrs. Reeves. She had
verified Vicky's statement, and found that a letter to the garage
owner had instructed him to give up the car to Mrs. Reeves, and he had
already done so, that very morning.
The letters had both been mailed in New York the night before, the
postmark showing that they were mailed in the district that included
Vicky's residence.
Was she, then, even now in hiding near her home? Or, had she sent the
letters to be mailed by some one else? By Julie, perhaps, who, I felt
sure, was with her mistress, wherever that might be.
My leaping thoughts took in all this, and by degrees the slower going
coroner, put it in words.
Lowney, the detective, bristled with interest. A clue, he had, he
thought, but what a clue! Two letters posted in the city. What did
they show of the whereabouts of the missing girl?
Lowney scrutinized the one to Mrs. Reeves. Ordinary paper, such as
might be bought in any stationery or department store, no monogram or
initial on it, nor was there any maker's name under the flap.
But a dozen people present testified to Vicky's handwriting, and the
coroner eagerly took possession of the letter.
Sherlock Holmes, I thought to myself, would read that letter, look at
it through his good old lens, smell it, and then walk out, and return
in a half hour, with Vicky Van in tow!
But for my part, I could see nothing illuminating in that plain paper
and envelope, and the letter in the well-known penmanship.
All I gathered was, that wherever Vicky was, she was not only safe but
comfortable. The tenor of the note breathed leisure and composure.
Clearly, she was not breathlessly hurrying from one place to another,
or vigilantly eluding pursuit. She was at ease, with opportunity to
indulge in thoughtful kindness to a friend, and to write at length
about herself.
At length, yes, but with no hint of her hiding-place nor any clue to
it. Poor little Vicky! She seemed so alone--and yet--how did I know?
She may have gone to friends or--somehow I hated to think that she had
any man who was her legal--or even willing protector.
Yet she said she was safe, and her letter showed no fear of the
future. And then again I was stabbed by the thought that perhaps there
was no earthly future for Vicky Van. I didn't want her to kill
herself--I didn't want her to be found and arrested--what did I want?
I wasn't sure in my own mind, save that I wanted her safety above all
else. I suppose I believed her guilty--I could believe nothing else,
but even so, I didn't want her brought to bay.
I gave my own testimony, which was all true, and all frank, except
that I said nothing of my nocturnal visit to Vicky's house or of our
telephone conversation. If my conscience smote me I combated it with
my chivalry, which would not allow me to betray a woman into the hands
of the law.
The later witnesses, who were mostly the working people whom Vicky
employed by the day, told nothing of her or of her home life. They all
spoke of her as a kind lady to work for, though, as a rule, they had
not seen her, but had been engaged, directed and paid by the maid,
Julie.
It seemed to be tacitly assumed that wherever Vicky was Julie was with
her. I had had this information from Vicky herself, but others took it
for granted, in the absence of any reason to think the contrary.
The whole day's session, to my mind, achieved little of useful
information. Mrs. Reeves' letter proved conclusively that Vicky was
aware of the search being made for her, and showed her determination
not to be found. It was Saturday, and when the inquest was adjourned
until Monday morning, I couldn't help feeling that it might as well
have been permanently adjourned, for all the further conclusions it
would lead to.
I went home at last, thrilling with the thought that that night I was
to get Vicky's mail from her box and hide it where she had directed. I
secretly hoped she might be in the house herself, waiting for it, but
scarcely dared believe this would be the case.