SARA WHEELER
Fleming Stone was deeply interested in the Appleby case.
While his logical brain could see no possible way to look save toward one
of the three Wheelers, yet his soul revolted at the thought that any one
of them was the criminal.
Stone was well aware of the fact that the least seemingly guilty often
proved to be a deep-dyed villain, yet he hesitated to think that Dan
Wheeler had killed his old enemy, and he could not believe it was a
woman’s work. He was impressed by Maida’s story, especially by the fact
that a recent development had made her more strongly desirous to be rid
of old Appleby. He wondered if it did not have something to do with young
Appleby’s desire to marry her, and determined to persuade her to confide
further in him regarding the secret she mentioned.
But first, he decided to interview Mrs. Wheeler. This could not be done
offhand, so he waited a convenient season, and asked for a conference
when he felt sure it would be granted.
Sara Wheeler received the detective in her sitting-room, and her manner
was calm and collected as she asked him to make the interview as brief as
possible.
“You are not well, Mrs. Wheeler?” Stone asked, courteously.
“I am not ill, Mr. Stone, but naturally these dreadful days have upset
me, and the horror and suspense are still hanging over me. Can you not
bring matters to a crisis? Anything would be better than present
conditions!”
“If some member of your family would tell me the truth,” Stone said
frankly, “it would help a great deal. You know, Mrs. Wheeler, when three
people insist on being regarded as the criminal, it’s difficult to choose
among them. Now, won’t you, at least, admit that you didn’t shoot Mr.
Appleby?”
“But I did,” and the serene eyes looked at Stone calmly.
“Can you prove it—I mean, to my satisfaction? Tell me this: where did you
get a pistol?”
“I used Mr. Wheeler’s revolver.”
“Where did you get it?”
“From the drawer in his desk, where he always keeps it.”
Stone sighed. Of course, both Maida and her mother knew where the
revolver was kept, so this was no test of their veracity as to the crime.
“When did you take it from the drawer?”
Sara Wheeler hesitated for an instant and from that, Stone knew that she
had to think before she spoke. Had she been telling the truth, he argued,
she would have answered at once.
But immediately she spoke, though with a shade of hesitation.
“I took it earlier in the day—I had it up in my own room.”
“Yes; where did you conceal it there?”
“In—in a dresser drawer.”
“And, when you heard the alarm of fire, you ran downstairs in
consequence—but you paused to get the revolver and take it with you!”
This sounded absurd, but Sara Wheeler could see no way out of it, so she
assented.
“Feeling sure that you would find your husband and Mr. Appleby in such a
desperate quarrel that you would be called upon to shoot?”
“I—I overheard the quarrel from upstairs,” she faltered, her eyes piteous
now with a baffled despair.
“Then you went down because of the quarreling voices—not because of the
fire-alarm?”
Unable to meet Stone’s inexorable gaze, Mrs. Wheeler’s eyes fell and she
nervously responded: “Well, it was both.”
“Now, see here,” Stone said, kindly; “you want to do anything you can,
don’t you, to help your husband and daughter?”
“Yes, of course!” and the wide-open eyes now looked at him hopefully.
“Then will you trust me far enough to believe that I think you will best
help them by telling the truth?”
“Oh, I can’t!” and with a low moan the distracted woman hid her face in
her hands.
“Please do; your attitude proves you are concealing important
information. I am more than ever sure you are not the guilty one—and I am
not at all sure that it was either of the other two.”
“Then who could it have been?” and Sara Wheeler looked amazed.
“That we don’t know. If I had a hint of any direction to look I’d be
glad. But if you will shed what light you can, it may be of great help.”
“Even if it seems to incriminate my——”
“What can incriminate them more than their own confessions?”
“Their confessions contradict each other. They can’t both be guilty.”
“And you don’t know which one is?”
“N—no,” came the faltering reply.
“But that admission contradicts your own confession. Come now, Mrs.
Wheeler, own up to me that you didn’t do it, and I’ll not tell any one
else, unless it becomes necessary.”
“I will tell you, for I can’t bear this burden alone any longer! I did go
downstairs because of the alarm of fire, Mr. Stone. Just before I came to
the open door of the den, I heard a shot, and as I passed the door of the
den, I saw Mr. Appleby, fallen slightly forward in his chair, my husband
standing at a little distance looking at him, and Maida in the bay
window, also staring at them both.”
“What did you do? Go in?”
“No; I was so bewildered, I scarcely knew which way to turn, and in my
fear and horror I ran into my own sitting-room and fell on the couch
there in sheer collapse.”
“You stayed there?”
“Until I heard voices in the den—the men came back from the fire and
discovered the—the tragedy. At least, I think that’s the way it was. It’s
all mixed up in my mind. Usually I’m very clear-headed and strong nerved,
but that scene seemed to take away all my will-power—all my vitality.”
“I don’t wonder. What did you do or say?”
“I had a vague fear that my husband or daughter would be accused of the
crime, and so, at once, I declared it was the work of the phantom bugler.
You’ve heard about him?”
“Yes. You didn’t think it was he, though, did you?”
“I wanted to—yes, I think I did. You see, I don’t think the bugler was a
phantom, but I do think he was a criminal. I mean, I think it was
somebody who meant harm to my husband. I—well—I think maybe the shot was
meant for Mr. Wheeler.”
Stone looked at her sharply, and said: “Please, Mrs. Wheeler, be honest
with me, whatever you may pretend to others. Are you not springing that
theory in a further attempt to direct suspicion away from Mr. Wheeler?”
She gave a gesture of helplessness. “I see I can hide nothing from you,
Mr. Stone! You are right—but may there not be a chance that it is a true
theory after all?”
“Possibly; if we can find any hint of the bugler’s identity. Mr. Keefe
says, find the bugler and you’ve found the murderer.”
“I know he does, but Keefe is—as I am—very anxious to direct suspicion
away from the Wheeler family. You see, Mr. Keefe is in love with my
daughter——”
“As who isn’t? All the young men fall down before her charms!”
“It is so. Although she is engaged to Mr. Allen, both Mr. Keefe and Mr.
Sam Appleby are hopeful of yet winning her regard. To me it is not
surprising, for I think Maida the very flower of lovely girlhood, but I
also think those men should recognize Jeffrey Allen’s rights and cease
paying Maida such definite attentions.”
“It is hard to repress an ardent admirer,” Stone admitted, “and as you
say, that is probably Keefe’s intent in insisting on the finding of the
bugler. You do not, then, believe in your old legend?”
“I do and I don’t. My mind has a tendency to revere and love the old
traditions of my family, but when it comes to real belief I can’t say I
am willing to stand by them. Yet where else can we look for a
criminal—other than my own people?”
“Please tell me just what you saw when you looked into the den
immediately after you heard the shot. You must realize how important this
testimony is.”
“I do,” was the solemn reply. “I saw, as I told you, both my husband and
my daughter looking at Mr. Appleby as he sat in his chair. I did not know
then that he was dead, but he must have been dead or dying. The doctors
said the death was practically instantaneous.”
“And from their attitude or their facial expression could you assume
either your husband or daughter to have been the guilty one?”
“I can only say they both looked stunned and horrified. Just as one would
expect them to look on the occasion of witnessing a horrible tragedy.”
“Whether they were responsible for it or not?”
“Yes. But I’m not sure the attitude would have been different in the case
of a criminal or a witness. I mean the fright and horror I saw on their
faces would be the same if they had committed a crime or had seen it
done.”
Stone considered this. “You may be right,” he said; “I daresay absolute
horror would fill the soul in either case, and would produce much the
same effect in appearance. Now, let us suppose for a moment, that one or
other of the two did do the shooting—wait a moment!” as Mrs. Wheeler
swayed uncertainly in her chair. “Don’t faint. I’m supposing this only in
the interests of you and yours. Suppose, I say, that either Mr. Wheeler
or Miss Wheeler had fired the weapon—as they have both confessed to
doing—which would you assume, from their appearance, had done it?”
Controlling herself by a strong effort, Sara Wheeler answered steadily,
“I could not say. Honestly, to my startled eyes they seemed equally
horrified and stunned.”
“Of course they would. You see, Mrs. Wheeler, the fact that they both
confess it, makes it look as if one of them did do it, and the other
having witnessed the deed, takes over the blame to save the guilty one.
This sounds harsh, but we have to face the facts. Then, if we can get
more or different facts, so much the better.”
“You’re suggesting, then, that one of my people did do it, and the other
saw it done?”
“I’m suggesting that that might be the truth, and so far as we can see
now, is the most apparent solution. But I’m not saying it is the truth,
nor shall I relax my efforts to find another answer to our problem. And I
want to tell you that you have helped materially by withdrawing your own
confession. Every step I can take toward the truth is helpful. You have
lessened the suspects from three to two; now if I can eliminate another
we will have but one; and if I can clear that one, we shall have to look
elsewhere.”
“That is specious argument, Mr. Stone,” and Sara Wheeler fixed her large,
sad eyes upon his face. “For, if you succeeded in elimination of one of
the two, it may be you cannot eliminate the third—and then——”
“And then your loving perjuries will be useless. True, but I must do my
duty—and that means my duty to you all. I may tell you that Mr. Appleby,
who employed me, asked me to find a criminal outside of your family,
whether the real one or not.”
“He put it that way!”
“He did; and while I do want to find the outside criminal, I can’t find
him if he doesn’t exist.”
“Of course not. I daresay I shall regret what I’ve told you, but——”
“But you couldn’t help it, I know. Don’t worry, Mrs. Wheeler. If you’ve
no great faith in me, try to have a hopeful trust, and I assure you I
will not betray it.”
“Well, Mr. McGuire,” Stone said to his adoring satellite, a little later,
“there’s one out.”
“Mother Wheeler?”
“Yes, you young scamp; how did you know?”
“Saw you hobnobbing with her—she being took with a sudden attack of the
confidentials—and, anyhow, two of ’em—at least—has got to cave in. You
can ferret out which of ’em is George Washingtons and which isn’t.”
“Well, here’s the way it seems to stand now. Mind, I only say seems to
stand.”
“Yessir.”
“The father and daughter—both of whom confess to the shooting, were seen
in the room immediately after the event. Now, they were on opposite sides
of the room, the victim being about midway between them. Consequently, if
one shot, the other was witness thereto. And, owing to the deep devotion
obtaining between them, either father or daughter would confess to the
crime to save the other.”
“Then,” Fibsy summed up, “Mr. Wheeler and Maida don’t suspect each other;
one did it, and both know which one.”
“Well put. Now, which is which?”
“More likely the girl did the shooting. She’s awful impulsive, awful high
strung and awful fond of her father. Say the old Appleby gentleman was
beratin’ and oratin’ and iratin,’ against Friend Wheeler, and say he went
a leetle too far for Miss Maida to stand, and say she had that new
secret, or whatever it is that’s eatin’ her—well, it wouldn’t surprise me
overly, if she up and shot the varmint.”
“Having held the pistol in readiness?”
“Not nec’ess’rily. She coulda sprung across the room, lifted the weapon
from its customed place in the drawer, and fired, all in a fleetin’
instant o’ time. And she’s the girl to do it! That Maida, now, she could
do anything! And she loves the old man enough to do anything. Touch and
go—that’s what she is! Especially go!”
“Well, all right. Yet, maybe it was the other way. Maybe, Wheeler, at the
end of his patience, and knowing the ‘secret,’ whatever it may be, flung
away discretion and grabbed up his own pistol and fired.”
“Coulda been, F. Stone. Coulda been—easily. But—I lean to the Maida
theory. Maida for mine, first, last, and all the time.”
“For an admirer of hers, and you’re not by yourself in that, you seem
cheerfully willing to subscribe to her guilt.”
“Well, I ain’t! But I do want to get the truth as to the three Wheelers.
And once I get it fastened on the lovely Maida, I’ll set to work to get
it off again. But, I’ll know where I’m at.”
“And suppose we fasten it on the lovely Daniel?”
“That’s a serious proposition, F. Stone. For, if he did it, he did it.
And if Maida did it—she didn’t do it. See?”
“Not very clearly; but never mind, you needn’t expound. It doesn’t
interest me.”
Fibsy looked comically chagrined, as he often did when Stone scorned his
ideas, but he said nothing except:
“Orders, sir?”
“Yes, Terence. Hunt up Rachel, the maid, and find out all she knows. Use
your phenomenal powers of enchantment and make her come across.”
“’Tis the same as done, sir!” declared the boy, and he departed at once
in search of Rachel.
He sauntered out of the north door and took a roundabout way to the
kitchen quarters.
Finally he found the cook, and putting on his best and most endearing
little boy effects, he appealed for something to eat.
“Not but what I’m well treated at the table,” he said, “but, you know
what boys are.”
“I do that,” and the good-natured woman furnished him with liberal pieces
of pie and cake.
“Great,” said Fibsy, eating the last crumb as he guilefully complimented
her culinary skill, “and now I’ve got to find a person name o’ Rachel.
Where might she be?”
“She might be ’most anywhere, but she isn’t anywhere,” was the cryptic
reply.
“Why for?”
“Well, she’s plain disappeared, if you know what that means.”
“Vamoosed? Skipped? Faded? Slid? Oozed out?”
“Yes; all those. Anyway, she isn’t on the place.”
“Since when?”
“Why, I saw her last about two hours ago. Then when Mrs. Wheeler wanted
her she wasn’t to be found.”
“And hasn’t sence ben sane?”
“Just so. And as you are part and parcel of that detective layout that’s
infestin’ the house an’ grounds, I wish you’d find the hussy.”
“Why, why, what langwitch! Why call her names?”
“She’s a caution! Get along now, and if you can’t find her, at least you
can quit botherin’ me.”
“All right. But tell me this, before we part. Did she confide to your
willin’ ears anything about the murder?”
“Uncanny you are, lad! How’d you guess it?”
“I’m a limb of Satan. What did she tell you? and when?”
“Only this morning; early, before she flew off.”
“Couldn’t very well have told you after she started.”
“No impidence now. Well, she told me that the night of the murder, as she
ran from here to the garage, she saw on the south veranda a man with a
bugle pipe!”
“A pipe dream!”
“I dunno. But she told it like gospel truth.”
“Just what did she say?”
“Said she saw a man—a live man, no phantom foolishness, on the south
veranda, and he carried a bugle.”
“Did he play on it?”
“No; just carried it like. But she says he musta been the murderer, and
by the same token it’s the man I saw!”
“Oho, you saw him, too?”
“As I told your master, I saw him, but not plain, as I ran along to the
fire. Rachel, now, she saw him plain, so he musta been there. Well,
belike, he was the murderer and that sets my people free.”
“Important if true, but are you both sure? And why, oh, why does the
valuable Rachel choose this time to vanish? Won’t she come back?”
“Who knows? She didn’t take any luggage——”
“How did she go?”
“Nobody knows. She walked, of course——”
“Then she couldn’t have gone far.”
“Oh, well, she could walk to the railway station. It’s only a fairish
tramp. But _why_ did she go?”
“I ask _you_ why.”
“And I don’t know. But I suppose it was because she didn’t want to be
questioned about the man who shot.”
“What! You didn’t say she saw him shoot!”
“Yes, I did. Or I meant to. Anyway that’s what Rachel said. The man with
the bugle shot through the window and that’s what killed Mr. Appleby.”
“Oh, come now, this is too big a yarn to be true, especially when the
yarner lights out at once after telling it!”
“Well, Rachel has her faults, but I never knew her to lie. And if it was
the man I saw—why, that proves, at least, there was a man there.”
“But you didn’t see him clearly.”
“But I saw him.”
“Then he must be reckoned with. Now, Cookie, dear, we _must_ find Rachel.
We must! Do you hear? You help me and I bet we’ll get her.”
“But I’ve no idea where she went——”
“Of course you haven’t. But think; has she any friends or relatives
nearby?”
“Not one.”
“Are there any trains about the time she left?”
“I don’t know what time she left, but there’s been no train since
nine-thirty, and I doubt she was in time for that.”
“She took no luggage?”
“No, I’ll vouch for that.”
“Then she’s likely in the neighborhood. Is there any inn or place she
could get a room and board?”
“Oh, land, she hasn’t gone away to stay. She’s scart at something most
likely, and she’ll be back by nightfall.”
“She may and she may not. She must be found. Wait, has she a lover?”
“Well, they do say Fulton, the chauffeur, is sweet on her, but I never
noticed it much.”
“Who said he was?”
“Mostly she said it herself.”
“She ought to know! Me for Fulton. Good-bye, Cookie, for the nonce,” and
waving a smiling farewell, Fibsy went off toward the garage.