TWO PIECES OF STRING
David Curtis felt around his empty cigarette case and sighed
regretfully; he had not realized his rapid consumption of its contents.
The cigarettes had, at least, provided diversion of a sort. Since Anne’s
peremptory summons by her mother, he had been left severely alone. No
one had entered the library and the folding doors, which had been in use
for the inquest in place of the portières, and closed again by Mrs.
Meredith after Anne’s departure, had prevented his hearing anything
transpiring in the hall. The clock on the mantel had ticked off the
minutes with maddening regularity. At the stroke of ten he laid on the
smoking table, by his elbow, a box of matches, which he had been
twiddling between his fingers, and picked up his cane. The opening of
one of the library doors caused him to face in its direction.
“Excuse me, sir,” apologized Herman as he advanced further into the
room, “I did not know you were still here, sir. I was thinking of
closing up the house for the night.”
“I won’t detain you,” replied Curtis quickly. “I am on my way to bed
now. Has every one retired?”
“Yes, sir.” Herman busied himself closing one of the long French windows
opening on the veranda and bolting the other four. “Mr. Armstrong has
just come back.”
Curtis paused on his way to the door. “Mr. Armstrong,” he repeated,
inquiringly. “Mr. Gerald Armstrong?”
“Yes, sir.” Herman dusted off his hands with a deprecatory gesture. “He
told me, sir, that he missed his train, so he came back, sir, to spend
the night.”
“Oh!” Curtis’ ejaculation covered doubt. He caught and wondered at the
badly suppressed excitement in the butler’s usually unemotional voice.
“Where is Mr. Armstrong?”
“He went straight to his old room, sir; he hadn’t taken away his
things.” Herman switched off two of the tall standing lamps, leaving the
room in semidarkness. “Said I need not disturb Mrs. Meredith to tell her
of his arrival. Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”
“No, thanks.” Curtis reached the doorway and turned around. “Good night,
Herman.”
“Good night, sir.” Herman watched the tall, erect figure pass into the
hall, a glint of admiration in his eyes. “He beats all,” he muttered
under his breath, then devoted his attention to closing the house.
As Curtis reached the staircase a thought struck him and he hesitated.
Why not get Herman to refill his cigarette case from the stock which
John Meredith had kept for his guests? He swung around and had partially
retraced his steps when he paused abruptly. He had caught the sound of
heavy breathing on his right, then light, receding footsteps.
“Herman?” His low call met with no response, and after a moment’s wait
he returned to the staircase and slowly mounted it, his cane swinging at
a convenient angle in his right hand. It was leaded and made an
excellent club in an emergency.
Keeping his left hand on the banisters, he circled the corner of the
staircase, recalling McLane’s clear description of the way to his
bedroom. He had just made the turn into his corridor when a hail from
Sam Hollister stopped him.
“Hello, Curtis!” Hollister kept his usually hearty voice at a low pitch.
“I am glad you haven’t gone to bed. I want a word with you.”
“You can have more than one if you wish,” responded Curtis. “I am in no
hurry.”
“Good! Suppose we go to John’s old bedroom. This way.” He slipped his
arm inside Curtis’ and suited his step to his as they went down the
winding corridor. “I was on my way to look you up.”
“Yes?” queried Curtis, as his companion ushered him into the bedroom,
switched on the light and then closed the hall door. “What can I do?”
An answer came from an unexpected quarter. “Go to H—l!” shouted Ruffles,
awakened from slumber by the brilliant electric light. The parrot hopped
about on his perch and flapped his wings in Hollister’s face as the
latter approached.
“I’ll wring that bird’s neck some day,” he grumbled. “How John stood his
infernal talking is one of the mysteries of this place.”
Curtis snapped his fingers and hummed a popular tune. Ruffles’ plumage
assumed its normal sleek appearance and his anger subsided. He gently
nipped Curtis’ extended finger, then with one sleepy eye cocked at
Hollister, descended from the top of his perch to a lower crossbar and
prepared to enjoy his interrupted nap.
“Hum! You seem to have the same knack of pleasing Ruffles as John,”
commented Hollister, eyeing the parrot with disfavor. “Come over this
way, Curtis.” He pushed a chair aside and Curtis followed him across the
bedroom. He judged they were near an open window from the cooler air
which blew upon them. “I’ll shut this in just a minute—”
“No, please don’t,” broke in Curtis. “The room is a trifle close and the
fresh air feels good.”
“Well, if it’s not too much draught.” Hollister looked somewhat dubious;
he was not a cold-air enthusiast. “Take this seat by the secretary, I’ll
sit here.”
A second later Curtis heard the jingle of keys knocking against wood.
Hollister caught his inquiring expression.
“I’m going through John’s desk,” he explained. “Inspector Mitchell and
Coroner Penfield said they ransacked it thoroughly, without results,
however.”
“And what do you expect to find?” asked Curtis.
“The documents John signed last night,” promptly. “Or if not, some clue
to their present whereabouts. We could find no trace of them in the
bureau or highboy. This,” laying his hand on the secretary, “is the only
available place for John to place the papers. He certainly did not leave
them lying around the room.”
“Perhaps he gave them to some one,” suggested Curtis, as Hollister
inserted a key in the top drawer of the secretary.
Hollister twisted and turned the key before he could get the drawer
unlocked. “If John did that, wouldn’t that person come forward now and
turn them over to me or to the police?” he asked.
“Provided that person has heard of Meredith’s death,” supplemented
Curtis.
Hollister turned his head and stared at him. “Not know of his death!” he
ejaculated in astonishment. “If John did give them to any one, that
person is living here now. You will recall that no one was admitted to
this house after Gerald Armstrong’s departure.”
Curtis tapped his cane thoughtfully. “I do not recollect that the
coroner asked if any caller was admitted to the house after Meredith
retired to his room,” he said.
“Maybe he didn’t,” retorted Hollister. “But you know that no one called
here, for you were down in the library later than anybody else, and the
library is near the front door—”
“And I am blind.”
Hollister looked taken aback. “I forgot,” he mumbled. “But you have
remarkable hearing—”
“The heavy portières were drawn and I sat in the far end of the library,
near the fireplace,” Curtis pointed out. “Also, I was absorbed in my
thoughts. I cannot swear that no one was admitted last night.” Hollister
took out, examined, and replaced the contents of the drawer before
answering.
“It hadn’t occurred to me that some one—some outsider—might have had
access to John last night after we left him,” he admitted slowly.
“Frankly, I have been haunted by one idea—that the papers were stolen—”
“By whom?” Curtis’ quiet voice gave no hint of the anxiety consuming him
as he waited for Hollister’s reply.
Hollister carefully sorted a bundle of papers and put them back in one
of the pigeonholes. “By the person who benefited through the
disappearance of the documents,” he said, and Curtis frowned at the
indirect answer.
“And who is that?” he asked.
Hollister eyed him keenly. “You know as well as I,” he exclaimed
roughly. “None other than John’s niece—Anne Meredith.”
Curtis bent the cane in his strong grasp, then let it spring back. “Miss
Meredith asked to have you retained as her lawyer,” he said. “As her
representative you should be the last person to point suspicion toward
her.”
“As her lawyer I am trying to divert suspicion from her by finding those
cursed documents,” snapped Hollister, his quick temper rising. “And look
here, Curtis,” swinging toward the blind surgeon in his excitement, “it
is going to be d—mned serious for her if we don’t find them. Don’t
forget that John was murdered.”
“By heaven! Do you mean to insinuate—”
Curtis was on his feet, his hand clenched about the other’s arm.
“No, no. Let go, you fool!” Hollister strove to free himself. “I haven’t
the faintest idea that she murdered her uncle, but,” as Curtis released
his grip on his arm, “but I do believe that she took those papers.”
Curtis mastered his temper with difficulty. “Your reasons for thinking
Miss Meredith a thief?” he demanded.
Hollister’s appraising glance at his companion lasted fully a minute.
“Well,” he said finally, “through the disappearance of the codicil and
the prenuptial agreement, Anne inherits a large fortune without having
to go through a marriage ceremony with you.”
“And is that your only reason for thinking she took the documents?”
persisted Curtis.
“Isn’t that enough?” replied Hollister, insolently. “She wanted to dodge
being married to you. That, depend on it, made her a thief.”
“Indeed?” Curtis laid his cane across his knees and bent a little
forward. “Then how do you account for the fact that she is still willing
to marry me?”
Hollister dropped the loose papers he had at that moment removed from a
smaller drawer of the secretary.
“Do you mean to say that you two are going on with Meredith’s plan?” he
stammered. “You are going through with the marriage farce?”
Curtis bowed affirmatively. “We are,” he said. “Anne and I have just
reached that decision.”
“I’ll be everlastingly blessed!” Hollister sat back and contemplated his
companion in astonishment. It was some seconds before he spoke. “Anne is
a damned sight cleverer than I thought!”
“I don’t get your meaning?”
“You don’t, heh? Well,” Hollister pulled himself up short, “let’s see
what we can find in this desk.” He stooped over and picked up the papers
which he had dropped some moments before. “Receipted bills, household
accounts,” running his eyes down them. “Stop a minute, what’s this?” He
unfolded as he spoke a legal-size sheet. “Evidently part of an
inventory, furniture and so on. Here’s a notation in one corner, written
crisscross, in John’s hand: ‘Contents of safe deposit belongs to’—that’s
all,” looking up blankly at Curtis.
“Well, what about it?” asked Curtis, with growing impatience.
“Oh, nothing.” Hollister refolded the paper, gathered the others in a
neat bundle and replaced them in the drawer, but the legal-size sheet
with its inventory of “furniture and so on,” he slipped inside his coat
pocket.
“Put it back,” advised Curtis sternly. Hollister’s mouth dropped open
and his hand fell to his side.
“How?” he began, then turned fiercely on Curtis. “Damn it, you _can_
see!”
“No.” Curtis smiled. “You simply forgot that that grade of paper rustles
badly. It required no particular art of divination to detect you, but
don’t try to fool me again, Hollister.”
The lawyer colored hotly, bit his lip, hesitated, then took out the
paper and put it with the others in the drawer.
“I kept it out on impulse,” he said apologetically. “I don’t know why,
unless it was that John’s handwriting in that notation seemed a bit
shaky.”
“Was there room to complete his sentence?” Hollister took the paper from
the drawer again and extended it toward Curtis. “Feel here,” he said,
and guided Curtis’ fingers over the lower right-hand corner. “What do
you find?”
“That the corner has been cut off diagonally,” replied Curtis. He ran
his hand over the sheet. “The other corners are untouched.”
“Just so.” Hollister crossed his short legs and assumed a more
comfortable attitude. “Well, the notation is just above the corner and
runs from edge to edge of the paper. It reads: ‘Contents of safe deposit
box belongs to’—the name must have been written just beneath it.”
“And cut off.” Curtis handed back the paper. “Put it away, Hollister.
The question now is, did Meredith cut off the corner or did some one
else? And if so, with what object?”
“And what has the contents of the safe deposit box to do with John’s
murder and the disappearance of the codicil and the prenuptial
agreement?” demanded Hollister, his excitement mounting.
“The answer to that will be found when his safe deposit box is opened,”
replied Curtis dryly. “Does Coroner Penfield know of this safe deposit
box?”
“I told him that John had a box at the Metropolis Bank,” answered
Hollister. “We have taken steps to have it opened in the presence of the
Registrar of Wills and the bank officials to-morrow morning.”
“Good!” Curtis leaned forward and placed the inventory sheet in the open
drawer, then closed it. “Go ahead, Hollister, and look through the
desk.”
“There is only one drawer more that I haven’t examined.” The lawyer
opened it as he spoke and went over its contents with care. “Pshaw!
nothing but invitations, souvenirs, and menus.” He closed the drawer
with a slam. “Our hunt is a failure, Curtis.”
Curtis pushed back his chair. “It would seem so,” he admitted, “as far
as locating the missing papers is concerned. Tell me, Hollister,” as his
companion rose, “what was the relationship between John Meredith and
Gerald Armstrong?”
“Why, none,” responded Hollister. “Armstrong is a man of about thirty, I
should imagine. He is a partner of Colonel Hull’s and that threw him
more or less in contact with John in a business way, as Hull’s firm
transacted some financial deals for John at one time.”
“Is Armstrong particularly attractive?”
“I believe he is quite a favorite with women.” Hollister’s tone lacked
enthusiasm. He paused by the electric light switch, preparatory to
turning it off, when Curtis, who followed him more slowly across the
bedroom, should have reached the hall door. “John liked him well enough.
They always appeared friendly, and he was a frequent visitor here. I
can’t understand why Armstrong left so suddenly last night, or why he
hasn’t been back.”
“Armstrong returned just before I came upstairs.”
“He did?” Hollister stared at Curtis in silence for a second, then spoke
with more than usual rapidity. “Have you talked with him?”
“No. Herman told me of his arrival and that he had gone at once to his
bedroom.” Curtis paused by the open door and, unseen by Hollister, who
had partly turned his back to switch off the lights in the bedroom, laid
his hand on the outside door knob. From it still dangled the piece of
string which the night before had led him to believe that he was
entering his bedroom. “Coming, Hollister?”
The lawyer closed the door tightly behind him. “I’ll walk with you to
your bedroom,” he half whispered. “It is later than I thought.”
Their footsteps made no noise on the heavy carpet and they traversed the
corridor in silence. At the entrance to Curtis’ bedroom Hollister bade
him a low voiced “good night.”
“Just a second.” Curtis stopped him as he was about to turn back. “Can I
borrow a cigarette?”
“Certainly, take these,” and the lawyer thrust a package into his hand.
“No, I don’t want any to-night,” and not waiting to hear Curtis’ words
of thanks, Hollister hurried away.
The package had been thrust into his hand upside down, and to Curtis’
dismay the cigarettes scattered on the floor before he could catch them.
Stooping down he groped around and after some difficulty located the
majority of them. He was about to rise when he touched a string partly
tucked out of sight under the edge of the strip of carpet which ran the
length of all the corridors.
Getting to his feet, Curtis closed his door, then stooped over. The bit
of string lay in the corridor directly under the door knob.
Curtis carried the string into his bedroom, closed the door, and making
his way to a chair, sat down. First laying aside his cane, he lighted a
cigarette, then held up the string and felt it carefully. He judged it
to be about six inches in length, of ordinary twine, and one end was
tied in a loop which had been neatly cut. Curtis held the two ends of
the loop together. Its size proved that it could have been tied over his
door knob.
Curtis smoked for many minutes without moving, the twine held suspended
in his left hand, and his mind busy with the enigma of the two strings.
Why had Fernando denied tying a string to his door knob, so that he,
Curtis, might identify his bedroom? Why had the string been cut off, and
why, above all, had a string been tied to John Meredith’s door knob? An
hour later Curtis undressed and went to bed with the enigma still
unsolved.