The Crooked Cross
by Charles J. Dutton
Contents
I. An Invitation to Dinner
II. The Crooked Cross
III. The Broken Bookcase
IV. We Discuss the Crime
V. The Inquest
VI. I Have an Adventure
VII. The Chief and I—Make a Call
VIII. We Have a Visitor—and—I Take a Ride
IX. In Which Bartley Arrives
X. The Face at the Window
XI. The Gardener Speaks
XII. The Chinaman Reappears
XIII. We Hear a Story—and—Discover It Is True
XIV. Patton Telephones—“It's Murder”
XV. Another Murder
XVI. The Voice in the Dark
XVII. The Case Is Ended
To my wife
Laura
who gave me the idea which
underlies this plot
Chapter I
An Invitation to Dinner
As a rule the first of June always found Bartley out of the city. With
the coming of the first days of spring, he would begin to grow
restless. One would find upon the large rosewood desk in his library
various fishing flies, and maps showing far-off lakes and streams. For
a while he would even drop his books and pamphlets which told of the
18th century of France, and pore over various guides of the woods and
mountains; and then when June arrived, we would take the big car and
go wandering forth in search of rest.
But the first of June had come and gone, and it was now the middle of
the month. What was worse, there did not seem to be the slightest
chance that we could get away for many weeks to come. Down in the
Court House a sensational murder trial was slowly dragging itself out
to a conclusion—a conclusion not yet in sight. It was this trial which
was keeping us in the city, for Bartley's testimony was the hope upon
which the defense leaned for an acquittal.
The stay in the city might have been endured if it had not been for
the weather. For over a week we had sweltered under the warmest heat
spell of many a year. Each morning I rose with but one thought in my
mind—that there would be a breeze. But every day the thermometer went
a few degrees higher than the day before—while each evening the list
of those overcome by the heat grew larger. Bartley, far more of a
philosopher than myself, at my constant complaint that it was warm,
suggested that I follow the example of Trouble, our Airedale, who
retired each morning to the cellar to spend the day.
One evening toward the end of the third week in June I entered
Bartley's house in Gramercy Square long after our usual dinner hour.
Going to the dining room, I found that Bartley had eaten several hours
before. Rance, our old colored man, served me with the air of one who
felt insulted over the fact my delay had caused his well-cooked dinner
to grow cold. It was not until I was drinking my coffee that he unbent
so far as to inform me that Bartley wished to see me in the library.
Bartley's library had once been called the most distinctive room in
the city. When he had remodeled the house, he had torn away all the
partitions to make one huge room. It ran across the entire front of
the house, and had one of the largest fireplaces I have ever seen. The
walls were covered with French prints—not copies, but the rare
originals of the eighteenth century. Boucher, Fragonard, and their
contemporaries covered three of the walls, while the fourth was left
for the Belgian—Rops—whose devilish suggestiveness leered at one in
over sixty etchings.
Below the etchings ran the bookcases, filled with the books which
Bartley loved; not ordinary books, but the rare things upon crime and
science, philosophy and psychology—the cream of a lifetime of
collecting. And then came the long rows of thin volumes, with their
dark red covers—the most extensive collection in the country, of the
rare pamphlets and memoirs of the years before the French Revolution.
Bartley was seated by his large rosewood desk, whose surface was
covered with books and papers. He even looked cool in his white silk
suit, and he smiled when I mentioned the heat. With that he went back
to the book he was reading, while I picked up the evening paper and
went over to an easy chair. There was nothing of importance in the
paper, though the murder trial filled many columns—columns of the
usual sob stuff, but with little information. In disgust, I threw the
paper aside just as Bartley spoke.
“Pelt,” he said, “I received a letter this morning from Carter. He is
very eager to have us come up and visit him.”
I was rather surprised at this, for I had thought Carter was on the
other side of the water. Seeing my astonishment, Bartley continued:
“George writes me that his chief has given him the summer to rest in.
He is at the old home, and wants us to spend part of the summer with
him.”
Carter's father had made a fortune out of some so-called cure for
rheumatism. It is much to be doubted if it ever cured any one, but it
did result in George receiving a large sum of money when his father
died. But money meant little to Carter, while adventure promised a
great deal more. In some manner, Carter got into the Secret Service,
where he surprised those who looked upon him as being only a rich
man's son, by becoming the best man his chief had. Though there was at
least fifteen years of difference in their ages, Bartley and he were
the warmest of friends. I was thinking of this as Bartley's voice
interrupted my thoughts.
“I have been thinking, Pelt, that there is not the slightest reason in
the world for your staying in the city. I can not get away until after
I have testified in the trial; and the way it looks now, only the Lord
Himself knows when that will be. But it is absurd for you to stay in
the city while it is so warm. Why don't you take the small car and the
dog and go to Carter's? I will come as soon as I can.”
Carter's home was in what has often been called the most beautiful
village in the state of New York. It lay under the shadow of a range
of hills, with a lake at the front door. And the lawn of Carter's
house fronted the lake. But though the suggestion appealed to me,
still I did not like the idea of leaving Bartley alone in the city; I
said as much, only to have him retort:
“That's foolish, Pelt. Your hanging around here can do no good. And
there is another reason why I want you to go up. Carter writes me that
James Ranville is his guest; and I want you to meet him.”
Seeing my blank look, he enlightened me. Ranville, it seemed, was an
inspector from Scotland Yard who was visiting in America. During the
war he and Carter had worked together on several cases, and he had
crossed the ocean to visit his friend. Bartley informed me that
Ranville was one of the best men Scotland Yard had, and urged strongly
that I follow his suggestion and run up to Carter's. And so, though I
protested rather keenly that I did not wish to run away, at last I
agreed to go the next morning; and when I said this, he returned to
his book.
Four o'clock the next afternoon found me driving down the wide,
tree-lined street of Carter's town. It had been an easy drive across
the central part of the state, though Trouble, the Airedale, protested
several times that he thought we had driven far enough. The last
seventy-five miles—miles which led through peaceful valleys and along
the side of shady mountains—had passed quickly. Though it was warm,
yet from the hills had come a slight breeze, and the air was heavy
with the scent of the fields and woods.
As I drove slowly down the main street, I could see that the village
was a wealthy one, and quite a summer place. White, colonial houses in
the midst of wide lawns were set far back from the street. The streets
were lined with huge elm trees, whose branches met in a green arch
above my head. The cars that I passed were expensive ones, and the few
people I saw looked as though they not only had plenty of leisure, but
all the money they could use.
Carter's place was down by the lake, and the directions which Bartley
had given me were so complete that I had no trouble in finding it. A
green hedge hid the lawn from the street, and large trees shaded the
house—a house whose red-shingled top I could see ahead of me. I turned
in the drive which ran between two rows of roses—roses red as flame in
the summer sun—and stopped the car in front of the house. It fronted a
lawn which ended at the lake. As the car stopped, a man ran down the
steps to greet me; it was Carter.
Any one who saw him would have decided that he had never done a stroke
of work in his life. His silk suit was of wonderful texture. The fit
was that which only the most expensive tailor can give, and the tie
which floated in the breeze was very far from being sedate. His whole
appearance was that of a young man who found life very good, and the
task of spending his money rather easy. The blond hair was closely
cut, and the little mustache gave him rather an affected look. No one
seeing Carter for the first time would have guessed his reputation in
the Secret Service.
He greeted me with evident pleasure and then asked in surprise where
Bartley might be, expressing his regrets when I told him why I had
come alone. Then, telling me to leave my things in the car and that
his man would take them to my room, he whistled to the dog and we went
to the veranda. It ran across the front of the house—a veranda with
easy chairs and bright porch hammocks. Here he proposed that I rest
until he had brought me out a drink, and with that he went into the
house.
For a while I studied the view before me. A few yards away the green
grass of the lawn ended at the waters of the lake. It was not a small
lake, and I judged it must be several miles to the other shore. Far
away I could see the mountains, their summits dark and cool against
the blue sky. Under the slight breeze the waters of the lake lapped
the shore with a gentle murmur, and the sound of the exhaust of a
motor boat came faintly to my ears. Not only was it beautiful but also
restful, and I gave a contended grin as I thought of the hot city I
had left.
Carter returned in a few moments with a tray—a tray which had three
tall glasses in which ice tinkled with a pleasing sound. He was not
alone, for with him was a tall man whom I judged must have been around
forty-five—a man who carried himself with an air of distinction, and
whose hair had begun to turn white. When they reached my side, Carter
introduced him as his friend Ranville, the inspector from Scotland
Yard.
Ranville was not the usual blond Saxon, nor for that matter did his
speech have much of an English accent. A glance at his well-knit frame
and his brick-red face told that he spent much of his time in the open
air. He took my hand with a firm clasp and expressed his regrets that
Bartley had been unable to come with me. There was something very
likable about the man, and there were the little lines around his lips
which showed that he had a sense of humor.
Sinking into our chairs, we slowly sipped our highballs, talking of
this and that. The dog, glad at his release from the car, wandered
about the yard, only to plunge at last into the waters of the lake.
Then, as there came a long silence, Carter said:
“I will take you up to your room, Pelt. We are going out to dinner
to-night. That is one reason I am sorry Bartley is not here.”
I turned an inquiring glance in his direction, and he gave a grin as
he replied:
“You are going to meet a real highbrow for once, Pelt. We dine with
Professor Henry Warren. You know this town is his birthplace.”
Though like every person who had read the newspapers during the last
few months I knew of Henry Warren, I was rather surprised to hear we
were to dine with him. Warren had just returned to America after a two
years' absence in China. For many weeks before his return the papers
had been asking if he were still alive. For months nothing had been
heard from his expedition, and his sudden arrival in Hong Kong, after
it had been announced that he had been killed by outlaws, had created
some excitement.
But it was something else which had caused the name of Warren to go
upon the front pages of every newspaper in the world. Not only was he
one of the greatest scientists in America, but he was considered our
leading authority upon evolution and the origin of man. The world had
been startled by a statement he made upon his arrival in Hong Kong:
That he had made discoveries which settled for all time the question
of the origin of man; but what these discoveries were no one knew, for
the scientist had refused to give even a hint. Instead he had simply
announced that he would say nothing more until he had time to complete
the manuscript of his book.
Carter must have been thinking the same thing that I had been running
over in my mind, for there came his laughing voice:
“They say he discovered the missing link or something of that kind.”
“They made a big fuss over the cable reports of his discovery in our
London papers,” was Ranville's comment. “What sort of a chap is he?”
Carter lighted a cigarette and laughed as he answered.
“Well, to start with, Warren is not at all the usual college
professor. He has all kinds of money, and his teaching at Harvard is
simply a hobby. Most of his time he spends in exploration in various
parts of the world. He has been everywhere. But this place happens to
be his old home, and he has a big summer estate here. Just now he is
writing his book upon whatever it was he found in China.”
“They tell me that he has a rather touchy disposition,” was my retort.
“Well,” drawled Carter, “I doubt if Warren knows what the word ‘fear’
means. And all his life he has had his own way. He doesn't like many
people, saying that they bore him because they know nothing. He can
overlook anything but ignorance and stupidity. But it's my idea that
when you meet him to-night, you will like him.”
With that he gave a glance at his watch and, rising, said that it was
time to dress for dinner. Showing me to my room, he told me we would
not have to wear our evening clothes, and asked that I be ready in
thirty minutes. As he left the room, I went to the windows and glanced
without. At my feet lay the lake, and for a moment I watched the sun
as it played upon the distant hills. Then my eyes fell upon the
Airedale, asleep under a tree by the water's edge.
When I went downstairs after my bath, I had to wait a few moments for
Carter and his friend. Going out into the yard, I placed the car in
the garage, and though the dog protested a little, left him with the
machine. Starting to stroll rather aimlessly around the grounds, which
covered several acres, I was hailed in the end by Carter, who wanted
to know where I had been hiding.
As we left the yard, he informed us that we would walk to Warren's,
which he said was only a little more than a mile away. We went down
the wide street—a street with large summer homes. Homes, set in the
midst of great lawns, which were hidden from our sight by the tall
hedges which enclosed the grounds. Not only did the street speak of
wealth, but also of age, for most of the homes were the large colonial
homes of a remote day. Far in the distance I could see the white
steeples of the churches which peered above the tall elms.
A few moments later we followed a winding road which ran along the
bank of the lake. Here the lawns had given place to extensive summer
estates, and the houses were set far back from the road. The road
ended before a stone wall—a wall at least ten feet high, which Carter
told us surrounded Warren's estate. We passed through the iron gate to
go up a driveway. A driveway lined on each side by a high box hedge,
and which ended some yards away at a rambling white house. At the door
of the house we waited for some one to answer the bell.
For some reason we had a long wait, and Carter had to ring the bell
several times before the door was opened. When it was thrown aside, a
woman, whom I judged must be the housekeeper, looked at us in a
questioning manner. Carter mentioned that we were invited to dinner,
and then, after remarking that she knew this, she rather nervously
opened the door wider and asked us to come in. Taking us down a long
hall, she showed us into the living room and left.
It was an enormous room. The floor was covered with valuable rugs.
Etchings and pictures, which Warren had picked up in all parts of the
world, were on the walls. Cabinets which were filled with priceless
china, and curios of all sorts were on every side of us. It was an odd
sort of a room, partly because of the great confusion it was in. It
almost looked as if the explorer had simply thrown into the one room
all the things which he had picked up in his travels.
But it was an interesting room because of the things it contained.
Ranville smiled a happy little smile as he went from one article to
another. The various curios so interested us that we forgot the
passing of time and almost an hour passed before it dawned upon us
that we had been alone in the room a long time. Then all at once
Carter gave a glance at his watch and uttered a low exclamation of
surprise.
“Do you know what time it is?” he asked.
Without waiting for a reply he went on: “It's now eight o'clock, and
Warren said the dinner was to be at seven. It's odd he has kept us
waiting as long as this.”
There was nothing we could say, and no one spoke. Again we turned to
the curios in the cabinets, but as the moments passed and there was no
sign of either our host or his housekeeper, we began to look at one
another. It seemed very strange to be invited to dinner and not have
our host welcome us. And we had seen no signs of him. There was not a
sound in the house, and if it had not been that the housekeeper had
let us in, we might have thought we were alone. And then, just as we
began to wonder what we had better do, the housekeeper came into the
room.
It needed but a glance at her flushed face to tell that not only was
she nervous, but also rather perplexed. She was a rather large woman
with a determined face—a face which now looked very troubled. She must
have known Carter, for she came across the room to his side and said:
“Mr. Carter, my dinner has been waiting since seven o'clock. But Mr.
Warren is not in the house.”
He made the usual reply that one would make at such a remark, only to
have the woman say:
“He cannot have been delayed, for I know where he is.”
I saw a keen look come into Ranville's eyes as he turned to look at
the woman. She stood before us twisting the corner of her apron with
nervous fingers. But it was Carter who asked:
“You know where he is?”
The housekeeper hesitated for a second, then replied:
“Yes. He is in his library. You know, Mr. Carter, that his study and
library is in that stone building on the hill. He spends his
afternoons there writing on his new book. I know he went there this
afternoon. And—” the voice trailed off into silence.
“And what?” came Ranville's low voice.
The woman raised her head and her eyes swept over the three of us.
There was not only a look of anxiety in them but, I thought, also a
trace of fear. But why there should be the last I failed to
understand. But fear there was. She started to speak, hesitated a
second, as if she did not wish to put into words what was in her mind,
and then suddenly said in a voice which shook a little:
“Only—I don't know what to say. I have called up his library a dozen
times, and he does not answer. I went down to the building and called
his name, but no answer. Then I tried the door, and it was locked—and
he never locks the door when he is working. Then I pounded on the
door, but still no one said anything in reply. And—” Once again came
silence, and the look of fear crept again across her face. She gave us
one bewildered appealing look and wailed:
“He ought to be in his library. I know he was there, but he won't
answer the phone, and he did not come to the door. And when I knocked
I thought—” For a moment she paused again.
For some reason none of us spoke. Our eyes were upon the frightened
face of the woman, whose nervous fingers were never still. And then
all at once she lifted her head and completed the sentence.
“And when I knocked at the door, I thought I heard something move
inside the library.”