HIS WIFE’S FATHER
I jumped up and seized the fire tongs. The cat’s wail had roused
Hotchkiss, who was wide-awake at once. He took in my offensive
attitude, the tongs, the direction of my gaze, and needed nothing more.
As he picked up the candle and darted out into the hall, I followed
him. He made directly for the staircase, and part way up he turned off
to the right through a small door. We were on the gallery itself; below
us the fire gleamed cheerfully, the cat was not in sight. There was no
sign of my ghostly visitant, but as we stood there the Bokhara rug,
without warning, slid over the railing and fell to the floor below.
“Man or woman?” Hotchkiss inquired in his most professional tone.
“Neither—that is, I don’t know. I didn’t notice anything but the eyes,”
I muttered. “They were looking a hole in me. If you’d seen that cat you
would realize my state of mind. That was a traditional graveyard yowl.”
“I don’t think you saw anything at all,” he lied cheerfully. “You dozed
off, and the rest is the natural result of a meal on a buffet car.”
Nevertheless, he examined the Bokhara carefully when we went down, and
when I finally went to sleep he was reading the only book in
sight—_Elwell on Bridge_. The first rays of daylight were coming
mistily into the room when he roused me. He had his finger on his lips,
and he whispered sibilantly while I tried to draw on my distorted
boots.
“I think we have him,” he said triumphantly. “I’ve been looking around
some, and I can tell you this much. Just before we came in through the
window last night, another man came. Only—he did not drop, as you did.
He swung over to the stair railing, and then down. The rail is
scratched. He was long enough ahead of us to go into the dining-room
and get a decanter out of the sideboard. He poured out the liquor into
a glass, left the decanter there, and took the whisky into the library
across the hall. Then—he broke into a desk, using a paper knife for a
jimmy.”
“Good Lord, Hotchkiss,” I exclaimed; “why, it may have been Sullivan
himself! Confound your theories—he’s getting farther away every
minute.”
“It was Sullivan,” Hotchkiss returned imperturbably. “And he has not
gone. His boots are by the library fire.”
“He probably had a dozen pairs where he could get them,” I scoffed.
“And while you and I sat and slept, the very man we want to get our
hands on leered at us over that railing.”
“Softly, softly, my friend,” Hotchkiss said, as I stamped into my other
shoe. “I did not say he was gone. Don’t jump at conclusions. It is
fatal to reasoning. As a matter of fact, he didn’t relish a night on
the mountains any more than we did. After he had unintentionally
frightened you almost into paralysis, what would my gentleman naturally
do? Go out in the storm again? Not if I know the Alice-sit-by-the-fire
type. He went up-stairs, well up near the roof, locked himself in and
went to bed.”
“And he is there now?”
“He is there now.”
We had no weapons. I am aware that the traditional hero is always
armed, and that Hotchkiss as the low comedian should have had a
revolver that missed fire. As a fact, we had nothing of the sort.
Hotchkiss carried the fire tongs, but my sense of humor was too strong
for me; I declined the poker.
“All we want is a little peaceable conversation with him,” I demurred.
“We can’t brain him first and converse with him afterward. And anyhow,
while I can’t put my finger on the place, I think your theory is weak.
If he wouldn’t run a hundred miles through fire and water to get away
from us, then he is not the man we want.”
Hotchkiss, however, was certain. He had found the room and listened
outside the door to the sleeper’s heavy breathing, and so we climbed
past luxurious suites, revealed in the deepening daylight, past long
vistas of hall and boudoir. And we were both badly winded when we got
there. It was a tower room, reached by narrow stairs, and well above
the roof level. Hotchkiss was glowing.
“It is partly good luck, but not all,” he panted in a whisper. “If we
had persisted in the search last night, he would have taken alarm and
fled. Now—we have him. Are you ready?”
He gave a mighty rap at the door with the fire tongs, and stood
expectant. Certainly he was right; some one moved within.
“Hello! Hello there!” Hotchkiss bawled. “You might as well come out. We
won’t hurt you, if you’ll come peaceably.”
“Tell him we represent the law,” I prompted. “That’s the customary
thing, you know.”
But at that moment a bullet came squarely through the door and
flattened itself with a sharp _pst_ against the wall of the tower
staircase. We ducked unanimously, dropped back out of range, and
Hotchkiss retaliated with a spirited bang at the door with the tongs.
This brought another bullet. It was a ridiculous situation. Under the
circumstances, no doubt, we should have retired, at least until we had
armed ourselves, but Hotchkiss had no end of fighting spirit, and as
for me, my blood was up.
“Break the lock,” I suggested, and Hotchkiss, standing at the side, out
of range, retaliated for every bullet by a smashing blow with the
tongs. The shots ceased after a half dozen, and the door was giving,
slowly. One of us on each side of the door, we were ready for almost
any kind of desperate resistance. As it swung open Hotchkiss poised the
tongs; I stood, bent forward, my arm drawn back for a blow.
Nothing happened.
There was not a sound. Finally, at the risk of losing an eye which I
justly value, I peered around and into the room. There was no desperado
there: only a fresh-faced, trembling-lipped servant, sitting on the
edge of her bed, with a quilt around her shoulders and the empty
revolver at her feet.
We were victorious, but no conquered army ever beat such a retreat as
ours down the tower stairs and into the refuge of the living-room.
There, with the door closed, sprawled on the divan, I went from one
spasm of mirth into another, becoming sane at intervals, and suffering
relapse again every time I saw Hotchkiss’ disgruntled countenance. He
was pacing the room, the tongs still in his hand, his mouth pursed with
irritation. Finally he stopped in front of me and compelled my
attention.
“When you have finished cackling,” he said with dignity, “I wish to
justify my position. Do you think the—er—young woman up-stairs put a
pair of number eight boots to dry in the library last night? Do you
think she poured the whisky out of that decanter?”
“They have been known to do it,” I put in, but his eye silenced me.
“Moreover, if she had been the person who peered at you over the
gallery railing last night, don’t you suppose, with her—er—belligerent
disposition, she could have filled you as full of lead as a window
weight?”
“I do,” I assented. “It wasn’t Alice-sit-by-the-fire. I grant you that.
Then who was it?”
Hotchkiss felt certain that it had been Sullivan, but I was not so
sure. Why would he have crawled like a thief into his own house? If he
had crossed the park, as seemed probable, when we did, he had not made
any attempt to use the knocker. I gave it up finally, and made an
effort to conciliate the young woman in the tower.
We had heard no sound since our spectacular entrance into her room. I
was distinctly uncomfortable as, alone this time, I climbed to the
tower staircase. Reasoning from before, she would probably throw a
chair at me. I stopped at the foot of the staircase and called.
“Hello up there,” I said, in as debonair a manner as I could summon.
“Good morning. _Wie geht es bei ihnen?_”
No reply.
“_Bon jour, mademoiselle_,” I tried again. This time there was a
movement of some sort from above, but nothing fell on me.
“I—we want to apologize for rousing you so—er—unexpectedly this
morning,” I went on. “The fact is, we wanted to talk to you, and
you—you were hard to waken. We are travelers, lost in your mountains,
and we crave a breakfast and an audience.”
She came to the door then. I could feel that she was investigating the
top of my head from above. “Is Mr. Sullivan with you?” she asked. It
was the first word from her, and she was not sure of her voice.
“No. We are alone. If you will come down and look at us you will find
us two perfectly harmless people, whose horse—curses on him—departed
without leave last night and left us at your gate.”
She relaxed somewhat then and came down a step or two. “I was afraid I
had killed somebody,” she said. “The housekeeper left yesterday, and
the other maids went with her.”
When she saw that I was comparatively young and lacked the earmarks of
the highwayman, she was greatly relieved. She was inclined to fight shy
of Hotchkiss, however, for some reason. She gave us a breakfast of a
sort, for there was little in the house, and afterward we telephoned to
the town for a vehicle. While Hotchkiss examined scratches and replaced
the Bokhara rug, I engaged Jennie in conversation.
“Can you tell me,” I asked, “who is managing the estate since Mrs.
Curtis was killed?”
“No one,” she returned shortly.
“Has—any member of the family been here since the accident?”
“No, sir. There was only the two, and some think Mr. Sullivan was
killed as well as his sister.”
“You don’t?”
“No,” with conviction.
“Why?”
She wheeled on me with quick suspicion.
“Are you a detective?” she demanded.
“No.”
“You told him to say you represented the law.”
“I am a lawyer. Some of them misrepresent the law, but I—”
She broke in impatiently.
“A sheriff’s officer?”
“No. Look here, Jennie; I am all that I should be. You’ll have to
believe that. And I’m in a bad position through no fault of my own. I
want you to answer some questions. If you will help me, I will do what
I can for you. Do you live near here?”
Her chin quivered. It was the first sign of weakness she had shown.
“My home is in Pittsburg,” she said, “and I haven’t enough money to get
there. They hadn’t paid any wages for two months. They didn’t pay
anybody.”
“Very well,” I returned. “I’ll send you back to Pittsburg, Pullman
included, if you will tell me some things I want to know.”
She agreed eagerly. Outside the window Hotchkiss was bending over,
examining footprints in the drive.
“Now,” I began, “there has been a Miss West staying here?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Sullivan was attentive to her?”
“Yes. She was the granddaughter of a wealthy man in Pittsburg. My aunt
has been in his family for twenty years. Mrs. Curtis wanted her brother
to marry Miss West.”
“Do you think he did marry her?” I could not keep the excitement out of
my voice.
“No. There were reasons”—she stopped abruptly.
“Do you know anything of the family? Are they—were they New Yorkers?”
“They came from somewhere in the south. I have heard Mrs. Curtis say
her mother was a Cuban. I don’t know much about them, but Mr. Sullivan
had a wicked temper, though he didn’t look it. Folks say big,
light-haired people are easy going, but I don’t believe it, sir.”
“How long was Miss West here?”
“Two weeks.”
I hesitated about further questioning. Critical as my position was, I
could not pry deeper into Alison West’s affairs. If she had got into
the hands of adventurers, as Sullivan and his sister appeared to have
been, she was safely away from them again. But something of the
situation in the car Ontario was forming itself in my mind: the
incident at the farmhouse lacked only motive to be complete. Was
Sullivan, after all, a rascal or a criminal? Was the murderer Sullivan
or Mrs. Conway? The lady or the tiger again.
Jennie was speaking.
“I hope Miss West was not hurt?” she asked. “We liked her, all of us.
She was not like Mrs. Curtis.”
I wanted to say that she was not like anybody in the world.
Instead—“She escaped with some bruises,” I said.
She glanced at my arm. “You were on the train?”
“Yes.”
She waited for more questions, but none coming, she went to the door.
Then she closed it softly and came back.
“Mrs. Curtis is dead? You are sure of it?” she asked.
“She was killed instantly, I believe. The body was not recovered. But I
have reasons for believing that Mr. Sullivan is living.”
“I knew it,” she said. “I—I think he was here the night before last.
That is why I went to the tower room. I believe he would kill me if he
could.” As nearly as her round and comely face could express it,
Jennie’s expression was tragic at that moment. I made a quick
resolution, and acted on it at once.
“You are not entirely frank with me, Jennie,” I protested. “And I am
going to tell you more than I have. We are talking at cross purposes.”
“I was on the wrecked train, in the same car with Mrs. Curtis, Miss
West and Mr. Sullivan. During the night there was a crime committed in
that car and Mr. Sullivan disappeared. But he left behind him a chain
of circumstantial evidence that involved me completely, so that I may,
at any time, be arrested.”
Apparently she did not comprehend for a moment. Then, as if the meaning
of my words had just dawned on her, she looked up and gasped:
“You mean—Mr. Sullivan committed the crime himself?”
“I think he did.”
“What was it?”
“It was murder,” I said deliberately.
Her hands clenched involuntarily, and she shrank back. “A woman?” She
could scarcely form her words.
“No, a man; a Mr. Simon Harrington, of Pittsburg.”
Her effort to retain her self-control was pitiful. Then she broke down
and cried, her head on the back of a tall chair.
“It was my fault,” she said wretchedly, “my fault, I should not have
sent them the word.”
After a few minutes she grew quiet. She seemed to hesitate over
something, and finally determined to say it.
“You will understand better, sir, when I say that I was raised in the
Harrington family. Mr. Harrington was Mr. Sullivan’s wife’s father!”