"Stabbed to death ... Woman suspected." His brain reeled. How "stabbed
to death"? He himself had seen--"Woman suspected." Then all his
despairing efforts to save her had been in vain! The train, starting
suddenly, gave him ample excuse to clutch the back of the chair for
support, and to fall heavily upon its cushions. He could not have held
himself upright another moment. An absurd scheme flashed through his
brain. He would, if necessary, take the blame upon himself--anything to
shield her. He would say they had quarreled over the Vandyke.
He became aware that Denning was asking for one of the three papers he
was clutching. He gave it to him, suddenly realizing that he was not
alone. He knew his face was deathly, and he could feel his heart's slow
pound against his ribs. If they did not believe him a sick man, they
must believe him a guilty one. To control his agitation seemed
impossible. The page swam before his eyes, and it was some moments
before he could focus upon the finer print of the sensational article.
The gruesome discovery was made by a servant, entering the library at
eight that morning. She found her master lying in the chair and thought
him asleep. She knew that the night before he had dismissed the butler,
declaring his intention to sit up late over some important business. He
might have been overcome by weariness. She tiptoed out and went in
search of the valet. His orders had been to call his master at nine and
he hesitated about waking him earlier, but at last decided to do so, as
it was nearing the hour. On entering the apartment he had noticed the
disorder of the room. He put out the electric light from the switch by
the door, drew the curtains and raised the blind. At once he realized
that death confronted him. Terrified, he had rushed to the hall calling
for the servants. Theodore Mahr, Victor Mahr's only son, who was on his
way to breakfast, rushed at once upon the scene.
There was a cut and contusion on the temple of the victim, evidently
inflicted by a weapon lying upon the table, which was believed to be the
cause of death, until the arrival of the coroner and Mr. Mahr's own
physician, when it was discovered that the victim's heart had been
pierced by a very slender blade or stiletto. The wound was so small and
the aperture closed by the head of the weapon in such a manner that no
blood had issued.
An enterprising reporter had gained access to the chamber of death, and
described in detail the rifling of the drawers, the partially open
window; he had picked up a small gold link, evidently torn from the
sleeve buttons of the deceased. Mr. Mahr was last seen alive by his
friend, Marcus Gard, who called to see him on important business before
taking his departure to Washington. Just prior to this, however, a
strange woman, heavily veiled, had sent in a note and been admitted to
Mr. Mahr. This woman was not seen to leave the house; in fact, the
servant had supposed her present when Mr. Gard called, and a party to
the business under discussion; it was now believed that she might have
remained concealed in the outer room until after the great financier had
taken his departure. Of this, however, there was no present evidence.
Mahr had dismissed the butler and told him to lock up--yet the woman had
not been seen to leave. Of course she could have let herself out, or Mr.
Mahr could have opened the door for her--no one seemed to recall whether
the chain was on in the morning or not.
Was the crime one of anger or revenge? Why, then, the robbery? The
appearance of the table drawers would seem to indicate someone in search
of papers, yet the dead man's valuables appeared to have been removed by
force--the cuff link had been broken, the watch snatched from its pocket
with such violence that the cloth had been torn. At present the mystery
that surrounded the crime was impenetrable. The dead man's son was
prostrated with grief.
Gard finished reading and rose, crushing the paper in his hand. "It's a
horrible thing--horrible! I hope you gentlemen will excuse me. I am not
well, and this--has affected me--unaccountably." He turned to his
stateroom. "I'm going to rest, if I can."
The two men looked at each other in deep concern.
"I hope we don't lose him," muttered Denning.
Alone in the silence of his swaying room, Gard threw himself face down
upon the bed. He could not reason any longer. His whole being gave way
to a voiceless cry. He shook as if with cold, and beat his hands
rhythmically on the pillows. He rolled over at last, and lay staring at
the curved ceiling of the car. One thought obsessed him. She had been
there, in that room, hidden--watching him, doubtless, as he committed
the ghastly theft. Even in the awful situation in which she found
herself, what must she think of _him_? Criminal, blackmailer, murderess,
perhaps--but what could she think of him? The blood tingled through his
veins and his waxen face flushed scarlet with vivid shame. In his
weakened, overwrought condition, this aspect of the case outranked all
others. He forgot the horrible publicity that threatened not only
Dorothy and her mother but Victor Mahr's son--when the motive of the
crime was learned. He forgot the yearning of his soul for the saving of
its sister spirit. He forgot the dread vision of the chair of death in
the keen personal shame of the creature she must believe him to be.
Suddenly a new angle of the case presented itself--Brencherly! He sat up
gasping. Brencherly must have guessed--the inevitable logic of the
situation led straight to the solution of the enigma. The detective knew
of Mahr's efforts to obtain the combination of Mrs. Marteen's safe; he,
himself, had told him that those efforts had been successful. Brencherly
knew of Mrs. Marteen's sudden return, her visit to her home and her
mysterious disappearance. The motive of the murder was supplied, the
disappearance accounted for. Already the detective's trained mind had
doubtless pieced together the fragments of these broken lives. It was
Brencherly who had told him of Mahr's former marriage. Everything,
everything was in his hands. Would the man remain true to him? What
wouldn't one of the great newspapers pay for the inside story! Could
Brencherly be trusted? His well seasoned dislike of the whole detective
and police service made him sure of treachery. But before him rose the
vision of the boyish, candid face, as the detective had taken the Great
Man's proffered hand, the honesty in his voice as he had given his
word--"I'll do my best, sir," and into Gard's black despair crept a pale
ray of hope.
Gard had not been mistaken when he surmised that Brencherly must
inevitably connect the murder with the sequence of events. But the
conclusion reached with relentless finality by that astute young man was
far from being what Gard had feared. To the detective's mind the answer
was plain--his employer was guilty.
The motive obviously concerned Mrs. Marteen. It was evident, from Mahr's
efforts to gain access to that lady's safe, that she possessed something
of which Mahr stood in fear or desired to possess. It was possible that
she had obtained proof against Mahr. Perhaps she opposed young Teddy's
attentions to her daughter. Perhaps Mahr was responsible for the
disappearance. At any rate, Gard had been the last person to see Mahr as
far as anyone knew; and a bitter feud existed, which no one guessed.
Brencherly did not place great reliance in the woman theory. Doubtless
one had called, but she had probably left. That she had gone out unseen
was no astonishing matter. A servant delinquent in his hall duty was by
no means a novelty even in the best regulated mansions. The robbery in
that case could have been only a blind for an act of anger or revenge.
The search for papers might have a deeper significance.
He intended to "stand by the boss," Brencherly told himself. Gard was a
great man and a decent sort; Mahr was an unworthy specimen. Brencherly
decided that at all Costs Marcus Gard must be protected. He cursed the
promise that kept him at his post. He longed to get into personal touch
with every tangible piece of evidence, every clew, noted and unnoted.
His men were on the spot and reporting to him; but that could not make
up for personal investigation. In view of these new developments, what
would be Mrs. Marteen's next move? Some secret bond connected the
three--Mahr, Gard and Mrs. Marteen.
Brencherly, alone in Gard's library, rose and paced the room, glancing
at the desk clock every time his line of march took him past the table.
His employer was coming home fast as steam could bring him. He longed
for his arrival and the council of war that must ensue; longed to be
relieved of the tedium of room-tied waiting. He no longer looked for any
communication from Mrs. Marteen. She had her reasons for concealment, no
doubt, and he felt assured that neither hospital nor morgue would yield
her up. It was with genuine delight that he at last heard the familiar
voice on the telephone, though it was but a hurried inquiry for news.
Half an hour later, haggard and worn beyond belief, Gard hurried into
the library and held out his hand.
The young man looked at his face in astonishment as Gard threw himself
into the chair and turned toward him.
"You'll pardon me," he faltered. "There's nothing that can't wait, and
you need rest, sir."
"Not till I can get it without nightmares," he snapped. "Now give me
this Mahr affair--all of it. I've seen the papers, of course, but I
imagine you have the inside; then I want to hear what you think."
The detective gave a start and colored to the roots of his hair. No
doubt about it, Gard was a great man, if he could meet such a situation
in such a manner and get away with it.
"Well, sir, the papers have it straight enough this time, as it happens.
There's nothing different."
"What was the weapon?"
"A stiletto paper cutter, that he always had on his table. It had a top
like a fencing foil; in fact, that's what it was in miniature, except
that it was edged. It was that top, flattened close down, that stopped
any flow of blood, so that everyone thought at first it was the blow on
the temple that killed him. There's this about it, though: I'm told they
say he was stunned first and stabbed afterward. That doesn't look like
the work of a common thief, does it?"
His hearer could not control a shudder. "Why not?" he parried. "He may
have known the knockout was only temporary, and he was afraid he'd come
to; or the man might have been known to Mahr, and he'd recognized him."
Brencherly shook his head incredulously.
"And the woman? What description did the servants give?" There was a
perceptible pause before he asked the question.
"The woman? The description is pretty vague--dressed in black, a heavy
veil, black gloves; nothing extraordinary. The servant did say he
thought her hair was gray, or it might have been light. He caught a
glimpse of the back of her head when he showed her into the room. She
sent in a note first; just a plain envelope; it wasn't directed."
"Did they find any letter or enclosure that might explain why she was
admitted?"
"No, sir, nothing."
The two men eyed each other in silence. Each felt the other's reticence.
"And what do you advise now?" Gard inquired.
Brencherly's gaze shifted to the bronze inkwells.
"If I knew just how this event affected you, sir, I might be able to
advise."
It was his employer's turn to look away.
"I know absolutely nothing about the cause of Mahr's death. I do know
that there was no love lost between us; also that I was the last person
known to have been with him. Isn't that enough to show you how I am
affected?"
"And the motive of your quarrel?" The detective felt his heart thump and
wondered at his own daring.
"We were rival competitors for the Heim Vandyke--he got it away from
me."
"Does that answer my question, sir?" Again Brencherly gasped at his own
temerity.
"Young man," bellowed Gard, half rising from his chair, "what are you
trying to infer?"
Brencherly stood up. "Please, Mr. Gard, be frank with me. I want to help
you; I want to see you through. It can be done--I'm sure of it. No one
knows about your trouble with Mahr. What he wanted with the combination
of that safe I can't guess, but it was for no good; and you told me
yourself that he had secured it. But everything may work out all right
if you let me help you. I'm used to this cross-examination business, and
I can coach you so they won't get a thing. I don't pretend to be in a
class with you, sir; don't think I'm so conceited. I'm just specialized,
that's all. I want to help, and I can if you'll let me."
Gard's face underwent a kaleidoscopic series of changes; then
astonishment and relief finally triumphed, and were followed by
hysterical laughter. Brencherly was disconcerted.
"Oh, so you think _I_ did it!" he said at last. "I wish I had!" he
added. "That wouldn't worry me in the least."
"Mrs. Marteen!" Brencherly exclaimed, and stood aghast and silent.
"No!" thundered Gard, and then leaned forward brokenly with his head in
his hand.
Slowly the detective's mind readjusted itself, and the look in his eyes
fixed upon Gard's bowed figure was all pitying understanding. Then he
shook his head.
"No, she didn't do it," he said--"never! I don't believe it!"
The stricken man looked up gratefully, but his head sank forward again.
"He had done a horrible thing to her," he said. "You're right; you must
have my confidence if you are to help--us. He had tried to estrange
Dorothy from her mother. I--happened to be able to stop that. I used
what you told me to quiet him. I threatened to tell his son the whole
story. It was bluffing, for we knew nothing positive. But the story is
all true. He was putty in my hand when I held that threat over
him--putty. I went to him that night to dictate what he was to do in
case he obtained any clew of Mrs. Marteen. I thought she might try to
see him--to--reproach him. We knew she was very ill, had been when she
went away, and then--nerve shock. I went to him--and found him already
dead. You understand--Mrs. Marteen--I couldn't but believe--so I set the
stage for robbery. I bluffed it off with everyone. I gave the message to
lock up and leave Mahr undisturbed. I wanted an alibi for her--or at
least to gain time."
Brencherly remained silent. A man's devotion to another commands awed
respect, however it may manifest itself. But he was thinking rapidly.
"You know District Attorney Field, don't you?" he asked at length.
Gard nodded. "An old personal friend; but I can't go to him with that
story. I'd rather a thousand times he suspected me than give one clew
that would lead to her. I'll stick to my story. Field wouldn't cover up
a thing like that--he couldn't."
"I know," returned Brencherly; "there's got to be a victim for justice
first, or else prove that nothing, not even the ends of justice, can be
gained before you can get the wires pulled. But that's what I'm setting
out to do. I don't believe, Mr. Gard, that Mrs. Marteen committed that
murder--not that there may not have been plenty of reason for it, but
the way of it--no! I've got an idea. I don't want to say too much or
raise any hopes that I can't make good; but there's just this: when I
leave the house it will be to start on another trail. In the meantime,
everything is being done that is humanly possible to find Mrs. Marteen.
There's only one other way, and that, for the present, won't do--it's
newspaper publicity, photographic reproductions and a reward. I think
she is somewhere under an assumed name. But there are two lodestones
that will draw her if she is able to move. One is the house of Victor
Mahr, and the other her own home. There is love and hate to count on,
and sooner or later one will draw her within reach. I'll have the
closest watch put about that I can devise. There's nothing you can do,
sir--now. If you'll rest to-night, you'll be better able to stand
to-morrow, and if I can verify my idea in the least I'll tell you. Let
your secretary watch here; and good night, Mr. Gard."
* * * * *