OUT OF THE MAZE
Inspector Mitchell gazed at Mrs. Hull as if he thought her demented.
“You! _You_ killed John Meredith!” he gasped, as the others listened in
petrified silence.
“Yes.” Mrs. Hull unconsciously tightened her grasp on David Curtis’
hand. His firm clasp helped her to keep her self-control. “But I did not
_intentionally_ stab him. It was an accident.”
Lucille walked unsteadily over to her mother. “Dearest,” she stammered.
“You must be mad!” Then as she caught Mrs. Hull’s pathetic, pleading
eyes, she turned in sudden frenzy to Coroner Penfield. “I tell you she
is mad—mad, and unaccountable for what she is saying.”
“Hush, Lucille, be quiet, dear.” Mrs. Hull turned in appeal to Leonard
McLane. “Calm her, doctor, until I finish what I have to say.”
McLane led the unstrung, half frantic girl out of the library, the
startled servants making way for them. As they reached the door Gerald
Armstrong tried to stop Lucille, but on meeting her look of loathing he
cowered back and covered his face with his shaking hands.
Sam Hollister, recovering somewhat from his stupor, brought up a chair
for Mrs. Hull.
“Sit down,” he said. “You look utterly spent”
With murmured thanks she sank down just as Anne approached and, dropping
on her knees, put her arms around Mrs. Hull.
“Excuse me, Coroner Penfield.” Mrs. Hull had some difficulty in
controlling her voice, as she blinked away the tears which persisted in
filling her eyes and half blinding her. “And you also, Inspector
Mitchell. Have a little patience and I will tell you my unhappy story of
Sunday night, and then go with you.” She sighed deeply.
“My husband has met with financial reverses during the past two months,”
she went on. “I knew something of his affairs, but he did not take me
entirely into his confidence. It was about midnight on Sunday, Julian
had retired early and I was about to go upstairs, when Gerald came to
see me and told me that their firm was virtually ruined. He suggested
that I see John Meredith and ask his aid.
“I am a home body, and starting again at the bottom, with a small house,
little money and no servants held no particular terrors for me, but as I
thought of my husband and his pride in his business integrity; Lucille,
accustomed to every luxury, and her social ambitions; and of the people
who had trusted my husband and who might be ruined through his
bankruptcy, I pocketed my pride and told Gerald that I would see John.”
Mrs. Hull paused, then continued more slowly:
“Gerald said that I must go to Ten Acres immediately, in spite of the
hour; that unless he had a check for fifty thousand dollars, or its
equivalent in cash, the firm could not open its doors on Monday
morning.” Again Mrs. Hull sighed. “I believed him and he brought me out
in his car. It was after midnight and Gerald admitted me into the house
through the north door, to which he had a latch key. He would not come
upstairs, but told me that he had tied a piece of twine to John’s door
knob so that I could make no mistake in the room.”
“But why all this secrecy?” demanded Mitchell. “Why didn’t you telephone
and make an appointment for the next morning?”
“Because I knew that my husband and John were not on good terms,” she
responded. “They had had a dispute a week before. I was not sure that my
husband would approve of my asking a favor of John, nor was I at all
sure that John would see me if I asked for an appointment. I knew John’s
habit of reading in bed half the night.” She hesitated and looked at
Penfield. “May I have a glass of water?”
There was a pause as Damason dashed out of the room, to return an
instant later, goblet in hand. Mrs. Hull drank thirstily, then,
returning the empty glass, she laid her hand on Anne’s shoulder as the
girl knelt beside her.
“I found John Meredith sitting up in bed, with a dressing gown thrown
over his shoulders, reading. My unexpected appearance astounded him. He
heard what I had to say very patiently, then slipping his hand under his
pillow, drew out a key.
“‘I have about one hundred thousand dollars in cash in my safe here,’ he
said. ‘I intended to reinvest it, but will gladly accommodate Julian
with a loan to tide him over. Will fifty thousand be sufficient?’” Mrs.
Hull paused, overcome by emotion, and the others waited in silence for
her to continue.
“In my nervousness, while explaining my errand to John, I had picked up
a sharp knife which lay on the open book by his side, and which he had
evidently used to cut its leaves.” Mrs. Hull stopped, her eyes darkened
in horror, as in imagination she lived the scene over again. “I have a
malady of the heart, and the suspense and John’s generous promise of
financial aid proved too great a tax. My head swam, I felt myself
reeling forward—I had remained standing—and threw out my left hand, in
which I still grasped the knife. John looked up, jerked back his head
and held up his hands to catch me. I swayed toward him, my left hand
swept downward and the knife slashed his throat.” Mrs. Hull broke down
utterly. When she looked up Curtis was holding a glass to her lips.
“Drink this,” he coaxed, and she obediently swallowed the powerful
stimulant.
“I am almost through my story, gentlemen,” she gasped. “The horror of
what I had done brought me to my senses and I fled from the room,
intending to get assistance. I ran down the hall, made the wrong
turning, and becoming completely confused went down the back stairs and
from there into the reception hall. I still carried the knife. In a
revulsion of feeling I threw it in one of the fern boxes and going to
the north door, slipped outside and over to Gerald’s motor, parked near
the entrance to Ten Acres.”
“Was Armstrong waiting in the car for you?” asked Curtis quickly.
“No. I had just strength enough to climb into the car and then I must
have fainted,” answered Mrs. Hull. “When I came to myself we were almost
home. Julian was in his room sound asleep and no one heard me.” With an
effort she got to her feet and loosened Anne’s tender clasp. “That is
all,” she stated. “But please do not think me utterly despicable—I never
knew until just now that Anne was suspected of killing her uncle, or I
would have given myself up to the police.”
“Cousin Claire, it was an accident,” declared Anne loyally. “Surely,
Inspector Mitchell, you cannot charge Mrs. Hull with murder?”
Mitchell shook his head. “Mrs. Hull must come with me to Headquarters
and tell her story to the authorities. There’s manslaughter to
consider—”
“Wait!” Curtis’ imperative tones interrupted the inspector. “Before you
proceed further—” In his earnestness Curtis drew a step nearer and
stumbled over a footstool. He involuntarily flung out his hand and
caught hold of the person standing by him. “Mrs. Hull, the wound which
you accidentally inflicted did not cause John Meredith’s death.”
A cry broke from Mrs. Hull and she swayed on her feet, while the others
in the room gazed at the blind surgeon in stupefied silence.
“I assisted at the post-mortem examination,” continued Curtis, speaking
with slow distinctness. “My fingers are my eyes and they detected a
superficial downward gash on Meredith’s throat just above the point
where the larger blood vessels were severed.”
Mrs. Hull hung on his words, her agonized expression giving place to one
of dawning hope.
“I didn’t kill John—thank God! Oh, thank God!” she gasped. “Doctor, you
mean—?”
“That when you fled in terrified horror from the bedroom pursued by
Meredith, he was followed by a witness of the scene. This witness,”
Curtis turned his head slowly, his sightless eyes sweeping the room,
“caught up with Meredith as the latter fell, half unconscious, at the
head of the staircase, and bending down cut Meredith’s throat.”
In the tense silence Anne heard her mother’s sudden intake of breath.
Turning slightly she saw that Mrs. Meredith sat watching Curtis in
deadly fascination, unconscious apparently that her fingers were
twitching convulsively about her scented handkerchief. Inspector
Mitchell’s aggressive voice brought Anne’s attention back to the others.
“Who was this witness?” he demanded.
“The man who planned the interview—Gerald Armstrong.”
As his name was pronounced Armstrong strove to wrench his wrist from
Curtis’ iron grasp.
“You lie, d—mn you; you lie!” he stammered, through lips grown white and
shaking. “You have no proof—”
“Tut! your face gives you away,” declared Mitchell, pointing to
Armstrong’s convulsed features as the latter cowered back at his
approach. “Let go, Doctor Curtis.”
Slowly Curtis released his hold. “Your pulse betrayed your emotion,
Armstrong, when I announced that I knew there were _two_ wounds on
Meredith’s throat,” he stated. “Believing yourself entirely safe from
suspicion after Mrs. Hull’s confession, the shock was more than your
nerves could stand.”
“It’s a lie—a lie—” Armstrong reiterated through dry lips as his hunted
gaze swept the room. His sudden dash for the library window was blocked
by Detective Sergeant Brown and the uplifted razor was knocked from his
hand. A minute more and he stood staring stupidly at a pair of handcuffs
dangling from his wrists.
“A handy weapon,” exclaimed Brown, picking it up. “So the razor did the
trick as far as Meredith was concerned, eh, Armstrong?”
A snarling curse was Armstrong’s only answer as he collapsed in a chair.
Before Curtis could speak, Anne turned and faced Coroner Penfield.
“I did go to Uncle John’s room late Sunday night,” she said. “Mother had
told me of his plan to have me marry Doctor Curtis.” She avoided looking
at Curtis. “And I went to ask him to reconsider. At first Uncle John was
very bitter and said many harsh things,” she hesitated and colored
painfully as she met her mother’s unfriendly glance. “Years ago when
they first went into business, my father and Uncle John were junior
partners in the firm of ‘Turner and Waterman’ stockbrokers—”
An exclamation from Curtis interrupted her. “The firm failed,” he said,
“and my father, Dan Curtis, who had intrusted his financial affairs to
it, went down in the crash. He committed suicide—”
“So Uncle John told me,” admitted Anne softly. “He said my father as
well as he had never gotten over his tragic death. They tried vainly to
locate your mother and aid her financially, but she—”
“Returned to her parents in Canada,” interjected Curtis. “I was brought
up in the wilds of the far Northwest and taught by the trappers not to
depend upon sight alone, but to use my hearing and my reasoning
faculties to gauge my sense of direction. It has proved invaluable
training for my present condition,” touching his sightless eyes.
“Shortly after my mother’s death I went to McGill Institute and worked
my way through college. The rest of my career you already know.”
“Uncle John learned of your parentage and went at once to Walter Reed
Hospital,” went on Anne. “He took an instant liking to you and invited
you here.” Again Anne’s white cheeks crimsoned. “He hit upon the plan of
our marriage as an act of restitution.”
“Very thoughtful of him,” remarked Mrs. Meredith dryly, feeling that she
had been in the background quite long enough. Her sensations at the
rapid progress of events had been beyond speech. “Continue your story,
Anne.”
“I left Uncle John in anger.” Anne’s voice was slightly husky, the
emotional strain was telling upon her. “But I could not sleep. I felt
that I must tell him that I agreed to his plan.” She bit her lip and
partly turned her back on Curtis. “As I got to his room I met Uncle John
and his ghastly appearance horrified me. Staggering past me, he thrust a
key into my hand, saying in a whisper: ‘Keep this, Anne.’ But in
pronouncing my name his voice rose, as he added: ‘I’ve caught you, you
devil.’ Ruffles, the parrot, took up his cry as Uncle John disappeared
up the dimly lighted corridor. Completely dazed by the situation, I
hesitated, then started to follow him, when a handkerchief was thrust
under my nose and I was carried into Uncle John’s bedroom—”
“By Gerald Armstrong,” stated Curtis. He turned in the direction of the
silent figure hunched in a chair. “Why did you use Anne’s handkerchief
to chloroform her?”
Armstrong stirred and glanced up in sullen rage. His evident intention
of not answering was changed by Brown’s peremptory tug at the handcuffs.
“The handkerchief, as well as Meredith’s razor, was lying by a bottle of
chloroform on Meredith’s bureau near the window by which I entered,” he
admitted, squirming about in his seat so as to avoid Mrs. Hull’s gaze.
“I thought Anne had seen me in her uncle’s bedroom. As she lost
consciousness I raced down the hall and caught Meredith”—he sucked in
his breath and a shudder shook him—“never mind the details. I got back
to the bedroom—”
“And chloroformed the parrot also?” asked Curtis.
“Yes. I was afraid the infernal bird would awaken the household. I had
overheard Mrs. Hull’s interview with Meredith, having slipped up the
back stairs to my bedroom and from there along the balcony to Meredith’s
open window. I heard him speak of the money in the safe and went in to
get the key of his secret compartment as he staggered into the hall,
evidently in pursuit of Mrs. Hull. It came to me in a flash that if I
took the money Mrs. Hull would be suspected, and, God! how I needed
money!” His voice rose and cracked. “I knew our firm was going to the
wall and with one hundred thousand dollars in cash I could get out of
the country. I searched Meredith’s body”—another shudder shook Armstrong
and he drew his coat sleeve across his forehead to wipe away the beads
of moisture—“then I searched his bedroom. Where did you conceal the key,
Anne?”
“In the cuff of my dressing gown,” answered Anne. “When I regained
consciousness my one idea was to follow Uncle John, and I went down the
corridor and found his body.” She looked at Penfield. “I did catch my
hair in that button, trying to find out if Uncle John was alive. And
later you caught me trying to remove the hair.”
“Why didn’t you take me into your confidence?” asked Penfield, and at
his tone of kindly solicitude Anne’s eyes filled with tears.
“I was afraid,” she admitted. “I realized that you suspected me of
killing Uncle John and I did not know how to clear myself.”
“One more question,” and Penfield closed his notebook. “How did your
fingerprints get on the scalpel?”
“I found the knife under the ferns and laid it back,” she explained. “I
thought that Uncle John had gone out of his mind and killed himself and
concluded he had thrown the knife through the banisters.”
Penfield rose and buttoned his sack coat. “I must congratulate you,
Doctor Curtis, upon your clever handling of this case,” he said. “But
for you Mrs. Hull would be under arrest, charged with a most heinous
crime.”
Curtis could not see Mrs. Hull’s look of passionate gratitude.
“How can I express myself!” she began incoherently. “The mental anguish
I have endured believing that I caused John’s death—Doctor, how can I
thank you?”
“Don’t please!” Curtis begged in embarrassment. “I never suspected you.
But I did think your daughter, Lucille, had been incited to rob Meredith
and was guilty of the greater crime also. I had been told by Meredith
that her engagement to Armstrong was an affair of long standing. He also
told me that there were rumors in the city of the firm of ‘Hull and
Armstrong’ being under financial stress, and that he was morally
certain, although without proof, that it had been Armstrong’s crooked
methods which threatened to swamp Colonel Hull.” Curtis paused and
cleared his throat.
“When you told of having stabbed Meredith,” he continued, “I realized
that such a gash, while it would bleed profusely, was not necessarily
fatal, and my thoughts turned to Armstrong. He could have witnessed the
scene unknown to you.” Curtis paused again. “I knew that he was standing
here by me, and under pretense of keeping my balance, I held my fingers
over his pulse as I tried out my theory.”
“Clever work, Doctor!” declared Inspector Mitchell admiringly. “But what
put you on Miss Lucille Hull’s trail?”
“Gretchen’s statement to me this morning that Lucille was her ‘young
Mees,’ and my recollection of the maid’s behavior at the inquest. Mrs.
Hull’s voice is sometimes similar in intonation to that of her daughter,
which accounts for Gretchen’s mistake in the identity of the woman under
her window,” replied Curtis. “But it was Susanne who gave me a clue to
the whereabouts of Meredith’s carefully concealed safe. I would like to
speak to Susanne.”
“_Monsieur_, I am here.” And Susanne, who had been hovering in the back
of the room, came forward.
“Why were you in Mr. Meredith’s bedroom?” asked Curtis. “And why were
you on your knees?”
“If it please _Monsieur_,” began Susanne, twisting her apron in some
embarrassment as she met Mrs. Meredith’s stern glance, “I heard _Madame_
Meredith talk much to herself about a key and _Monsieur_ John’s wealth
being under lock and key in his room. So, _Monsieur_, I went early this
morning to his old bedroom to look for zat key—to return it to _Madame_”
with calm assurance. “And I search on my knees for eet.”
“I had the key until last night,” admitted Anne.
“When I took it from you—” broke in Curtis.
“You!” But Anne’s exclamation was drowned in a deeper cry from
Armstrong.
“So you beat me to it!” he cried. “I followed Anne’s car, hoping for a
chance to get it from her.”
“You were the masked man?” Light burst upon Anne as Curtis turned his
head questioningly from one to the other.
“Yes. I drove by and parked my car on the left fork of the road when I
saw you had stopped,” explained Armstrong. “I improvised a mask out of
the lining of my coat. I suspected, Curtis, that Anne had given you the
key, and was putting up a game of bluff when she claimed it was missing;
so I used the monkey to see if you were awake before I entered your
bedroom last night. You got a strangle hold on his paw, Curtis, and I
took the only way of getting him free,” with an ugly glance at Jocko,
sitting curled up in comparative comfort in the big armchair.
“Did you have the monkey in my room yesterday, Armstrong?”
“_Non, Monsieur_, it was I,” broke in Susanne. “I had carried him from
_Mademoiselle_ Anne’s bedroom. Jocko does not like ze parrot. He escape
me down the corridor and run in your room. Before I get him he soil your
counterpane and later I change it.” Leonard McLane, who had entered the
library unobserved some moments before, smiled involuntarily.
“So much for that mystery,” he exclaimed. “What about the white hairs
around the button on Meredith’s jacket, Curtis?”
“I saw Fernando an hour ago,” answered the blind surgeon. “He confessed
that he had lied as to their color and stole them from my wallet,
thinking to protect Anne. He admitted that you, Armstrong, cut the
string from my door knob and intimidated him into lying about it.
Fernando is not a courageous soul! He overheard your conversation with
Jim Nolan, the notorious confidence man, alias Frank Elliott.”
Armstrong rose with such abruptness that he overturned his chair.
“I’m going,” he announced.
“With me,” and Detective Sergeant Brown was by his side, revolver in
hand. Armstrong blanched and bit his lip. With shoulders sagging and
head bent he accompanied Inspector Mitchell and Brown from the library.
Escorted by the two men and Coroner Penfield, he slunk through the
reception hall and out of the house, Susanne and Damason, their
curiosity still unsatisfied, in their wake. Mrs. Hull, at a whispered
word from McLane, also hurried from the room.
Curtis turned and took several restless steps up and down. He still had
a most unpleasant duty to perform.
“Mrs. Meredith,” he began, pausing near her, “did you turn out the light
in the corridor on Sunday night just after I discovered John Meredith’s
dead body?”
“I did,” answered Anne, before her mother could reply. “I had some
insane notion, after I found poor Uncle John, that I must slip back to
my bedroom unseen, so I turned off the light. I met mother just at the
entrance of our boudoir.”
“Wait, Anne, I have a confession to make.” Nothing could be more suave
and apparently tranquil than Mrs. Meredith’s voice and manner. It had
just occurred to her astute mind that the blind surgeon might be a
person to propitiate. She saw Anne’s face of distress, Curtis’ slight,
cynical smile, and met Leonard McLane’s questioning glance with supreme
audacity. “I saw Doctor Curtis and Sam leave John’s bedroom and rush
down the corridor. Much surprised by their conduct, I entered my
brother-in-law’s bedroom. On the bed I saw several papers. I took the
prenuptial agreement, Anne, that I might safeguard your interests—”
Anne turned deadly white. “Mother!”
“It is safely put away,” she went on, paying not the slightest attention
to Anne. “When it is required I will produce it.”
“And the codicil to Meredith’s will,” stated Curtis swiftly. “You have
that also—denial is useless,” as she attempted to speak. “Both documents
must be given to Hollister to-day, madam. If you wish I will hand them
to him with the one hundred thousand dollars in cash, the inference
being that they were placed in the safe by Meredith.”
“Very well, I will give them to you, on condition—”
“No conditions, madam,” with stern emphasis. “I have no intention of
pressing the subject further. So far as you are concerned, it will never
be mentioned by me.”
“Nor by me,” was the audacious retort, as Mrs. Meredith swept by Curtis
and left the room.
McLane broke the ensuing pause by walking over to the chair and lifting
Jocko in his arms. “I’ll take care of this little fellow, Anne,” he
said. “Lucille is resting quietly in her room with her mother and
Gretchen is looking after her. Colonel Hull’s injury in his motor
accident last night comprised a broken arm and a collar bone. I’ll see
you both later,” and he discreetly vanished.
Curtis fumbled with his cane in unhappy silence. He had solved the
problem surrounding John Meredith’s mysterious death, but like many
another gratified desire it brought a bitter pang to his heart. He was
in honor bound to release Anne from her promise to marry him. But how
could he leave with his passionate love for her untold? Love had made no
count of the hours of their short acquaintance. Anne had crept into his
heart to be enshrined forever. Was it obligatory that he leave her in
silence? The minutes lengthened as pride warred fiercely with love.
“Anne,” he stopped suddenly before where she sat, watching him with deep
attention, “I cannot in honor hold you to your promise. Your uncle’s
plan that we marry as an act of restitution was unjust to you. I honor
you highly, I esteem your friendship—” He kept his voice calm by an
effort of will. “Without a career, I feel that I have no right to ask
you to share your life with me. I am not worthy—”
Worthy? Could mortal man be so blind? Was this calm, kindly friendship
to be all that he could offer her starving heart? Her lonely childhood,
her mother’s cruel neglect had reached their culmination. Was this man,
who had protected her in her hour of need, who had won her heart by his
chivalry and courage in the face of adversity, to pass out of her life?
She raised her eyes, and had Curtis been able to read their longing
appeal, his stubborn pride would have yielded.
Anne rose slowly to her feet and rested both hands upon his shoulders.
“Dave,” she whispered, with lips that trembled even as she smiled, “I
can’t release you from your promise, because—” she faltered, “because—”
He was holding her in close embrace. At last barriers of false pride
were set aside.
“My dear, dear Anne,” he stammered. “Tell me, sweetheart, because—”
“I love you,” and Anne, glancing shyly upward into his transfigured
face, knew that she had reached her happy haven at last.