In Which Bartley Arrives
The girl's question had been asked in a laughing voice and her eyes
had danced as she spoke to the chief. But the rather curt reply of the
police officer and the tone of seriousness in his voice caused the
smile to slowly fade from her face. For a moment she looked at him,
and then in a trembling voice asked:
“Why—what is the matter?”
The other girls had crowded around. Their eyes were bright with
wonder, curious to know what was the trouble. The chief gave them an
uncertain look, then said that there was not much the matter, but he
wished to speak to the secretary alone. Reluctantly they started
toward the cottages, casting back many wondering glances. As they
reached the piazza of the central cottage they broke into excited
conversation.
He turned to the secretary, who stood, with a grave face, in front of
him. Just what was in his mind regarding the girl would have been
rather hard to say. But I knew he was remembering the statement of the
housekeeper—that she had said Warren ought to be killed. Yet, as I
looked at the beautiful girl before us, with the bathing suit showing
every line of her figure, I decided that though she might have made
the statement it had meant nothing. Her face was frank and the gaze
which she gave us both was fearless.
“Florence,” said the chief slowly, “Mr. Warren was found dead the
evening you left.”
Her eyes opened wide in astonishment and she gasped:
“Dead?”
He nodded gravely, then added: “Worse—murdered.”
The girl's face whitened, and then slowly the color flushed back into
her cheeks until they were a vivid red. For a moment she looked at us
as if not believing what had been said. Then slowly she went to a
near-by box and sank down upon it. There was no doubt she was
surprised and also horrified at the news she had heard.
As she did not speak, the chief nervously shifted his weight and threw
a puzzled glance in my direction. Purposely I turned my eyes away, and
in a moment, in an embarrassed voice, he said:
“You see, Florence, it's a bit awkward. You went away from Mr.
Warren's very suddenly.”
For the first time the girl showed a bit of temper, as though it had
just dawned upon her that the chief would not have taken the long trip
from the village just to tell her Mr. Warren was dead. She spoke in a
voice a little nervous and at the same time sharp.
“Well, Suppose I did; that's my business, is it not?”
The chief shook his head. “I am afraid not,” was the slow response.
“In a sense it's mine—now. You see the remark you made to Mr. Warren's
housekeeper made it necessary to find you.”
She looked at him as if not understanding and then half stammered:
“What remark?”
“That Mr. Warren ought to be killed,” was the cold reply.
As if realizing the seriousness of the chief's tone, the girl's face
went very white. Slowly her fingers opened and closed; her eyes
studied the water for a moment as if she was trying to fix in her mind
the distant shore. Then she slowly raised her head and in a look which
included us both said:
“I did say that. But it was a very silly thing to say and it meant
nothing. Mr. Warren was alive when I left him and, of course, I know
nothing about his death.”
As the girl hesitated, the chief broke in:
“I am not saying you did know anything about his death. I only want to
make you see how you placed yourself in a bad position by going away
and by the remark you made. Why did you say it?”
The secretary gave a half laugh, though there was a tone of disgust in
it.
“It's all very simple. Mr. Warren was a very hard man to work with. He
was rushing his book and I was working from ten to twelve hours a day.
He paid pretty well, of course, but once in a while he would get mad
and then he would sure bawl me out. The afternoon I left we had a
little disagreement.”
“What over?” was my question.
The girl gave me a surprised look. Remembering that he had not given
my name, the chief introduced me as a friend of Carter's. Then the
secretary replied:
“Two things. Mr. Warren had reached the place where he was dictating a
chapter about the social and marriage customs of the natives of
China.” She paused, half blushed and went on:
“It was pretty frank, that chapter. Finally, he decided I should copy
some pages from a book he had. He got the book from one of the cases—a
case he kept always locked. It was a pretty rotten book—so rotten that
I kicked a bit about copying the two pages. And then he flared up and
said that if I did not care to do his work I could quit. And I got
mad, and”—she laughed a bit sheepishly—“I guess it was the warm day
got us both; anyway I got mad and left. I went to the house, and when
I was packing my grip, the more I thought of it the madder I got.
That's why I said the foolish thing I did to the housekeeper.”
A cold flurry of wind came sweeping across the lake, and I saw the
girl shiver. It was getting late in the afternoon. As I pulled out my
watch to see the time, the chief said the girl had better dress, and
that we would take her back to the village. As she seemed a little
startled at this remark, he told her she was the only person who could
tell us if anything had been taken from Warren's library. This seemed
to relieve her a good deal, for there was little doubt in my mind that
she thought the chief was going to arrest her. Saying she would be
ready in a few moments, she rose to her feet and went slowly to the
cottage.
When she was out of hearing the chief turned to me:
“Mr. Pelt, I guess there is no doubt that girl is telling the truth.”
I assured him it was my own idea. I added that as Warren had not been
killed until several hours after she had left his grounds it would be
absurd to even think she knew anything about the murder. With a little
grunt of approval, the chief studied the water for a while and we then
turned to go to the car.
We had to wait a few moments and when the secretary rejoined us she
was followed by the other girls of the camp. She had changed into a
light summer dress and as I saw her coming across the tall grass, I
thought again what a beautiful girl she was. The girls crowded around
the car as she took her seat behind me, but they said little. I could
tell by their serious faces that she had told them of the death of Mr.
Warren and that they were not overpleased at the chief taking her
away. They all kissed her in turn, after the manner girls have in
saying good-by, and as we went around the bend in the road our last
sight was of their waving hands.
It was a silent ride to town—no one doing any talking. For my part, it
took all my skill to keep the car on the road. It was with an inward
sigh of relief that I felt the firm concrete under the wheels when we
struck the main highway. Just as we were coming into town the chief
turned to tell the girl that he would drop her off at her aunt's. And
as we pulled up in front of the white cottage he warned her not to
talk to any one and told her to be at his office by seven.
I dropped the chief at the police station. As he climbed from the car,
he stood a moment on the sidewalk to say that he wanted me to go with
him that evening to Warren's. He was going to take the secretary and
have her tell him if anything had been disturbed. So saying I would
meet him at the summer house around seven-thirty, I drove away.
As I parked the car in front of Carter's garage Trouble gave one quick
leap over the side and went on a run up the steps to the
veranda—barking at the top of his lungs. I saw him jump at the figure
of a man who half rose from a chair, give one sudden, joyful bark,
then run to the grass, only to leap back to the veranda. Wondering
what had excited him, I got out of the car and started for the house.
And as I went up the veranda steps, who should rise out of a chair and
come over to greet me but Bartley.
That I was surprised to see him was putting it mildly. If I thought of
him I pictured his sitting in the hot courtroom in New York awaiting
his chance to testify. But here he was, very cool in his summer suit,
and with a little smile of welcome playing around his fine lips. I
rushed to his side and poured out my surprise.
He laughed, saying that he had managed to get away this morning. And
then, as we both seated ourselves my eyes went wandering around for
Carter. Seeing my glance, Bartley told me that Carter had been called
down to the city two hours before by an urgent telegram from his
chief. The two men, much to their mutual surprise, had met at the
station and Carter had begged that Bartley stay at his house until he
returned. He expected to be back in two days.
Just as he finished saying this, Ranville came out of the house. He
and Bartley had met several times before and I knew they both had a
great admiration for the other's ability. They joked a few minutes,
and as the housekeeper came to the door to announce dinner, I hurried
to my room for a quick wash.
Dinner turned out to be a lively meal. Under Bartley's conversation
Ranville warmed up far more than I had seen before and the two men
laughed and joked at many of the experiences about which they spoke.
There was a decided contrast between them. Bartley's hair, which had
also started to turn white, gave his fine face a very intellectual
appearance. Ranville was far the more nervous of the two, and his
rather thin face did not break into a smile as often as Bartley's.
For a time they talked of various places in Europe where they had
spent vacations. Then they mentioned mutual acquaintances among the
police officials of the Continent; and this naturally led to the
murder of Warren.
Bartley informed us he had read all the papers had said about the
crime, adding that as he did not know anything else, he had not formed
an opinion. He remarked that though all he had talked with at the club
were shocked at the sudden death of the scientist, their greatest
concern was over what would be done regarding his book. And then with
a laugh he said:
“You may be surprised, Ranville, to know there are a good many people
in this country who think that Warren's taking off was an act of God.”
The Englishman gave him a look to see if he was serious, then asked
what he meant. Bartley half laughed as he replied:
“Really, it's not laughable, Ranville, for it is a state of mind which
ought to have passed out in the Dark Ages. But there are certain
rabid, fanatical groups which say in their weekly publications that
God punished Warren because of his stand on evolution.”
The eyes of the Scotland Yard Inspector gazed in a blank manner across
the table. I could see he did not understand what Bartley was driving
at. In a moment he asked:
“What do you mean?”
Bartley's voice became serious. “You, perhaps, do not understand just
how extensive is the battle being waged in this country against
science. Little theological leaders, without any knowledge of life or
modern thought, have been stirring up their followers in a movement
which is called ‘Fundamentalism.’ It is an appeal to all the bigotry
which lies in the heart of uneducated people. Of course it is also a
fear—a fear of knowledge. But in this campaign there have been many
bitter things said. They are even trying to have science outlawed by
law. One religious weekly said to-day, in a veiled editorial, that the
taking off of Warren at the time he was going to give his new proofs
of evolution to the world was an act of God.”
Ranville shrugged his shoulders as though the whole thing was beyond
his comprehension and, in fact, said as much. Bartley agreed with him.
He added, such a thing was not understandable to any educated person
but admitted rather gravely that the educated people were more or less
outnumbered in our country.
As there came a pause in the conversation I remembered that Carter had
wired Washington regarding the Chinaman who had visited us. I turned
to Ranville to ask if there had been a reply. He shook his head,
replying that nothing had arrived. As Bartley did not understand what
we were talking about, I informed him, and he asked us what had been
the substance of the oriental's conversation. We told him how he
claimed to have found Warren dead with the dagger still in the wound.
He said nothing until we had finished, then asked:
“What did he say was his object in calling on Warren?”
“Some silly story about a box with the ashes of Buddha in it,” drawled
Ranville. “A yarn about Buddha's body being burned when he died, and
the ashes being buried in seven places. Said Warren walked away with
one of the boxes of ashes.”
I saw a smile creep over Bartley's face as he asked:
“Just what was his story.”
The Englishman dropped two lumps of sugar into his coffee and, taking
his spoon, stirred it slowly; then he replied:
“He said that when Buddha was dead they burned his body and then
divided the ashes into seven piles. Buried them in seven different
places. That's about what he told us; seemed a silly yarn to me.”
“Well, Ranville,” replied Bartley, “it is all true. Tradition said
that the ashes of the great religious teacher were placed in seven
boxes and that seven shrines were erected. Up until a few years ago
the scholars rather doubted the entire story; but they dug into one of
the reputed shrines in India a while ago and found a box of gold and
rare wood. It contained ashes and a fragment of bone. They are pretty
sure it contained Buddha's ashes.”
“That's what he said,” commented Ranville. “And then he went on to
tell us Warren had picked up one of those boxes in China. He wanted
him to give it back. Chinese were all heated up over it, or something
of that sort.”
“He said that Warren found one of them in China?” was Bartley's
question, and because of the surprise in his tone we both looked at
him.
“That's what he said,” retorted Ranville; “why?”
There was a slight frown on Bartley's face and, pushing aside his
coffee cup, he lighted a long thin cigar. Then he turned to the
Englishman.
“Why,” he said, “simply this, Ranville. There were seven reputed
shrines of Buddha. Not all of them are known. But the seven shrines in
which were buried a portion of his ashes were in India. There was not
one in China. And—”
Ranville was always unruffled and I had failed to see him excited.
Even the discovery of Warren's body had not caused any apparent show
of emotion. But at Bartley's remark he gave a sudden start and I saw
his lips tighten. He turned quickly to say:
“Then when he said that he lied.”
Bartley was thoughtful a moment, replying slowly:
“If he told you Warren returned from China with a box containing part
of the ashes of Buddha he must have lied. At the present time the
scholars almost all agree that the discovery made by digging into the
shrine in India I told you of is true. That is, they accept the
tradition that the ashes of Buddha were divided into seven parts and
buried in seven places. They go further and say that the box they
found no doubt contains the ashes of the great teacher—part of them.
But so far as I know there has never been any other box of ashes
discovered; and it is absurd to say that Warren found them in China,
for the ashes were all buried in India. When he said that, he must
have lied, or else—”
“He was too smooth an article to be mistaken,” was my comment, to
which Ranville nodded his assent.
“No doubt,” was Bartley's retort. “But there is one thing sure; he did
not tell you the real reason for his visit to Warren's library.”
“I doubt if he told the truth regarding finding the body,” was my
contribution.
“You know,” broke in Ranville, “we people at Scotland Yard are often
accused of being slow. But there is one thing sure. We would have
locked that Chinaman up and kept him for a while. His story sounded
good. But at the same time he was the last person who went to the
library around the time of the murder. And thinking it over now, there
is another thing I want to know. He said the door was open and he
walked in. If that's true, who closed it afterward? And what's more,
who took the knife from the body? That was a silly thing to do after
the murderer went away.”
Bartley gave him a long look and slowly repeated the word, silly, then
became silent. Ranville and I entered into an argument as to whether
the man had gone to the chief of police, as we suggested, and told him
the story. Ranville had just said he would wager the chief had not
seen him when the word “chief” made me give a quick look at my watch
and remember that I was to meet him at Warren's library at
seven-thirty. One glance told me it was now fifteen minutes past the
hour. I arose with a sudden exclamation.
As I pushed back my chair, both men looked at me in surprise. In a few
words I told where I was going, and Bartley at once suggested that he
would go with us, to which the Englishman added his assent. We found
our hats, went out on the lawn and, finding the Airedale running back
and forth, locked him in the garage. The next moment we were in the
car and a second later drove out of the yard.