“I’m sorry not to take you at your word, and leave you at once, but I must warn you that the police will doubtless come to see you, and I’m sure you are in need of advice.”
“Police!” she breathed, scarcely audibly.
“Yes; Not Hart, but more likely Detective March. He is not an unkind man, but he will do his duty, and it will be an ordeal for you. Now, won’t you let me help you, as a friend, or, if not, won’t you call a lawyer, of good standing and repute?”
“A lawyer!” she breathed, exactly as she had spoken of the police. Clearly, the poor child was at her wits’ end. The reason for her distress I did not see, for surely nobody could dream of her being mixed up in a crime. The obvious explanation was that she was shielding somebody, and this was my theory.
I came to a swift conclusion that she had gone to Pleasure Dome that night, that she had seen or heard the murderer at his fell deed, and that it had so unnerved her that she could not control herself when thinking of it.
This seemed to point to Billy Dean, that is, if she cared for him as he did for her.
Kee was forging ahead.
“Yes. Please try to realize, Miss Remsen, that the visit from the police detective is inevitable. He will doubtless come this afternoon. You will have to see him; one can’t evade the law. Now, let me help you to be a little prepared for him, and not let him throw you into spasms of terrified silence, or, worse, impetuous and incriminating statements.”
Still looking at him steadily, Alma Remsen seemed to change. Her face grew calm, even haughty; her lips set in a straight line that betokened determination and courage; and her eyes fairly gleamed with a beautiful bravery that transformed her into a veritable goddess of war.
She seemed to have taken up her sword and her shield, and I think it was at that moment that I realized that I loved her and adored her as something far above earthly mortals.
I couldn’t help her, at least, not at the moment, but I could worship her and did so, with the innermost fibres of my being.
Then this new Alma spoke.
“Mr. Moore,” she said, “and Mr. Norris, I thank you for this visit. I thank you for the kindness that prompted it, and for your offers of assistance. But there is nothing you can do, either of you. I am alone in the world; alone, I must fight my battles and conquer my foes. Alone I must defend my actions and accept my misfortunes. I live alone, I shall always be alone, and alone I must decide upon my course in this present crisis. Please believe I am grateful and please believe I am sorry not to accept your kindly offered assistance. But I cannot tell you anything, I cannot—I cannot—Merry!”
Her final despairing call brought the old nurse on the run.
“Yes, lamb, yes, my darling,—there, there——”
Mrs. Merivale clasped the trembling girl to her bosom and glared at us as at vile interlopers.
“Please to go away, gentlemen,” she said, in a repressed tone that indicated wrath behind it. “Please leave my young lady for the present. She will see you, if she wishes, at some other time. But now, she is nervous and all wrought up with the horror of her uncle’s death. If you are men, let her alone!”
The last plea was brought out with a dramatic touch worthy of a tragedy queen, and I know I felt like a worm of the dust and I devoutly hoped that Keeley felt even more so.
He gave one last bit of unsolicited advice.
“You’d better be with Miss Remsen when the police come, Mrs. Merivale,” he said, and no one could have put any construction on his words other than the kindest and most disinterested counsel.
Then we went away, and Keeley rowed us home without a word.
If Whistling Reeds had seemed desolate and sinister, Variable Winds was just the opposite. Clean, wind-swept, cheerful with flowers and only pleasantly shaded by the waving trees, the place was like sanctuary after the forbidding aspect of the island home.
Luncheon was ready and the two women who awaited our coming were not at all reproachful, but welcomed us with smiles.
“Dust up a bit and then come along,” admonished Lora, and we obeyed.
At the table, though the subject of the tragedy was not entirely taboo, there was no real discussion, until we were, later, seated in the lounge, comfortably smoking and resting from our strenuous morning.
“The keynote is the missing waistcoats,” Kee announced, oracularly.
“You said the keynote was the watch in the water pitcher,” I reminded him.
“They are part of the same note,” he informed me. “The work of the same hand and equally illuminating as signboards.”
“Oh, if you’re going to be mysterious——”
“I’m not, Gray, but I can’t announce decisions that are not yet entirely clear in my own mind. I’m sorry Doctor Rogers went away—he could read the message of the watch at once. But I don’t want to put it up to any other doctor.”
“Well, of course I can’t help you, as you are so close-minded——”
“Nonsense, Gray,” said Lora, “of course we can help. The watch may or may not be of such great importance, but it surely isn’t all there is of it. Nor the waistcoats, either. To me, those things seem merely adjuncts of the rest of the queer performance, the flowers and feather duster and all that.”
“But the waistcoats are in contradictory stories,” I argued. “Miss Remsen said she took them home Tuesday afternoon, and left them in the boathouse where they were found. Griscom says they were in their place on Wednesday. Then Everett came along and said Mr. Tracy wore one of them, the blue one, Wednesday night at dinner.”
“Well, then,” and Lora looked at me keenly, “what point are you making, Gray? These stories seem to stultify Miss Remsen’s statement.”
“I’m making the point,” I declared, “that the girl isn’t quite responsible for her own statements; she doubtless told her uncle she would like the satin for her patchwork and he probably said she could have it. But she didn’t carry the waistcoats away with her, Tuesday afternoon—that we know. So, what conclusion is there, but that, as the old nurse said, it is all a plant? Somebody came in the night, killed Mr. Tracy, and then, after fixing up all that jiggery-pokery, went off carrying the waistcoats and Totem Pole, and carefully planted them in Alma Remsen’s boathouse. I can’t see anything incriminating to the girl in all that.”
“Gray, dearie,” Lora said, with a queer, affectionate little smile, “you couldn’t see anything incriminating to Miss Remsen with a Lick telescope! Now, that’s all right, and I’m not cavilling, but unless you can approach this matter with an unbiassed mind, maybe you’d better keep out of it.”
“Keep out of it nothing!” I exclaimed. “I admit I admire Miss Remsen, but that’s all the more reason to see things clearly and stay in the discussion.”
“Right!” said Maud, “and I vote that Gray be in it all, and that we pay especial attention to his opinions.”
I looked at her quickly, to see if she was guying me, but she was not, and I at once recovered my balance, my self-respect and an added cocksure air that caused the Moores, both of them, great amusement.
But I was not at all daunted by their smiles and I went on.
“My opinion is this,” I stated, “the man who killed Sampson Tracy is as clever as they come. He fixed up all the rubbishy evidence to mislead the investigators. But, perhaps on purpose, perhaps accidentally, he led directly to Miss Remsen in the matter of the waistcoats and the Totem Pole. And so——”
“Now, Graysie, dear,” and Kee threw the stub of his cigar into the ash tray, “I’m ready to talk. So, call a halt on the waistcoat-totem matter, and let’s get down to cases.”
“It’s a case, all right,” said Lora, whose fine eyes were gazing directly at her husband, as she concentrated on the subject. “Kee, you’ve got your chance!”
“Chance!” Moore echoed. “I’m no Sherlock, I’m ready to say right out that I’m all afloat, absolutely at sea, in this thing.”
Somehow this comforted me. I feared he would jump at once to a conclusion that somehow incriminated Alma Remsen, and I was greatly relieved that he didn’t.
Wanting to be helpful, I volunteered: “How about the weapon? There’s the nail, of course, but what about the hammer or mallet? I can’t see that nail driven without a heavy implement.”
Kee looked at me.
“No,” he said, “I can’t either. How about a croquet mallet?”
“That would fit,” I responded. “Know of any here-abouts?”
“Not precisely. But the tennis court at Whistling Reeds used to be a croquet ground.”
I quailed, but I hoped I didn’t show it.
“And that proves?” I said, jauntily.
“Nothing but possibility.”
“Which isn’t much.”
“No, it isn’t much.” Kee looked harassed. “But a lot of little bits of evidence, added together, make a——”
“Make a muckle,” I jibed. “All right, what’s your muckle?”
“That Alma Remsen knows more about this matter than she’s telling.”
Moore’s deadly still tone, more than his words, struck a chill of terror to my heart.
For a moment, knowing his great wisdom as well as I did, I was tempted to tell him everything, but caution held me back, and I only said, “it may be.”
Lora looked at me, curiously.
“Gray,” she said, “you don’t know anything, do you?” I was glad she put it like this.
“No, Lora,” I replied, “I don’t know anything. If I did, I’d speak out. But I do believe that there is a deep, dark, underlying mystery that none of us understands, and I wish I could see into it.”
“Kee will see into it,” she said, confidently, and I could only respond: “I hope to Heaven he will.”
Kee sat without speaking for a moment or two, and then said:
“Gray, what was the reason for Miss Remsen’s sudden change of base while we were talking to her?”
“Change of base?” I said, stupidly.
“Yes. Don’t be an imbecile. I know you noticed it. It was just after I told her the police would come to interview her. That seemed to spur her or stir her up in some way, for she at once became a different being. More alert and alive, more determined.”
“Yes, I noticed it,” I told him. “I can’t explain it except to say that she was startled at the idea of a police interview, and it brought out her natural bravery and courage. She rose to the occasion and I’ve no doubt she will meet Hart with proper dignity and poise.”
“It won’t be Hart, it will be March. March is a good man, but I doubt if he can swing this case.”
“Of course he can’t,” I declared. “But you’re going to do the swinging, yourself.”
“Then I’d better begin. Now let’s marshal our facts. First of all, we have the collection of properties found on the bed. Was that all the work of one hand?”
“Yes,” I said, “but not necessarily the hand of the murderer.”
“That’s right,” and Moore nodded assent. “I’m inclined to think a waggish-minded visitor followed up the murderer and arranged that scenery.”
“Why?” asked Lora, very thoughtfully.
“I can think of no reason,” Kee returned, “except in an effort to direct suspicion away from the real criminal.”
“Who would do that?”
“Only a clever and watchful person, determined to shield the murderer.”
“Set up a hypothetical case,” suggested Maud. “Say, Mrs. Dallas was the murderer——”
“How absurd,” cried Lora, “why should she kill the man she expected to marry?”
“That we don’t know,” Maud went on in her calm way. “But there may have been reasons. Suppose Mr. Tracy had learned some secret in Mrs. Dallas’s past——”
“Go on,” Kee said, briefly, as Maud looked at him questioningly.
“I know it sounds melodramatic, but the whole affair is melodramatic, and those clues don’t seem to lead anywhere. Well, suppose Mrs. Dallas did it—killed him, I mean—and suppose somebody saw her who cared for her, Mr. Ames or Mr. Everett, or—or anybody. Mightn’t he trump up all that funny business to make it seem as if she could not have done it?”
“I don’t think you’ve struck it quite right, Maud,” Keeley said, “but I will say there’s a germ of thought in your theory. Granting two people concerned, there’s no reason to think them accomplices, it’s far more likely one is covering up the deeds of the other.”
“All of which is fantastic and not founded on fact,” Lora put in. “It’s only imagination, and one can imagine anything.”
“You have no use for imagination?” I asked her, smiling.
“Yes, when it is admittedly imagination, as in a fairy story or a romance. But imagination must not be used as a basis for argument.”
“She’s right,” Keeley said, slowly. “Lora’s usually right. Now what facts have we, outside the feather-duster lot?”
“The people themselves,” I offered. “The relationships between the people and the motives of the people.”
“That’s more like it,” and Kee gave me a glance of approval. “Take the household first. Who’s the most likely suspect?”
“Mrs. Dallas,” I said, promptly.
“She isn’t in the household.”
“Same as. She has a latchkey, so that makes her practically one of them.”
“Then Alma Remsen is in the same case.”
“Same case,” I agreed, knowing better than to combat him.
“All right, go on. What’s the widow’s motive?”
I knew Moore’s methods. He liked to have us make suggestions that he could accept or discard, thereby giving his mind something to work on.
“We can’t get at her motive,” I told him, “because we know too little about her. A personal interview with her is needed, and then she would probably, or at least perhaps, let slip some hint of why she wanted Sampson Tracy out of her way.”
“She’d have to hate him,” said Maud, doubtfully.
“Whoever killed him must have hated him,” Kee declared. “It was a brutal murder——”
“Don’t over-stress the brutality,” Lora put in. “It was horrible, of course, but to my mind it was less dreadful than shooting or stabbing.”
“Where did the murderer get his nail?” mused Kee.
“The nail and the hammer,” Lora said, “inclines me to the servants, or the secretaries. I can’t see Mrs. Dallas or Alma Remsen coming to the house armed with a hammer and nail! They might bring a pistol or a dagger, but the implement used must have been picked up impulsively or impetuously, in the Tracy pantries or offices.”
“Unless the murderer acted on the story Maud told of, the Spanish story ofThe Nail,” I observed.
“Rather far-fetched,” Kee returned. “I’d have to see a copy of that book in a suspect’s possession before I’d take much stock in that theory.”
“I rather fancy it,” Maud insisted. “Any of our suspects, and I suppose they include all who were questioned by the coroner, may have read that book.”
“The servants?” I asked.
“Yes, often servants read books that they run across, though they’d never dream of buying them.”
“Then Griscom for choice,” Moore said. “Say his motive is a desire to get his legacy at once. Say his friendship for his master is not so great as he pretends, and there’s no question of his opportunity. Say he read that gruesome tale, and concluded it would be a fine way to get his money quickly. Then, after his deed is accomplished, he has imagination enough, or ingenuity enough to fix up all those tricks on the bed, and in his zeal he rather overdid it.”
“Your own imagination is running away with you,” I declared. “It may all be true, but you’ve no atom of proof, nor even an atom of evidence against Griscom more than any other servant. Sally Bray——”
“Sally Bray may have been Griscom’s accomplice. Isn’t she in love with him?”
“Is she?” I inquired. “There’s the trouble, Kee, we don’t know enough facts. Is Sally in love with the butler? Is Mrs. Dallas in love with the secretary? Is Harper Ames in love with Mrs. Dallas? Get these things settled for certain, and then try to fit in your theories.”
“That’s so, Gray,” Moore agreed. “And I see Mr. Police Detective March coming our way. I hate to acknowledge it, but he may know more, in his ordinary police way, than we hifalutin, transcendent detectives have, so far, been able to ferret out.”
I glanced out of the window to see the stolid-looking man tramping along toward our door.
Although he showed little alertness or eagerness, there was a sort of power in the way he carried himself that gave me a feeling of confidence.
He came in as Kee rose to greet him, spoke to the ladies in a preoccupied way, and seated himself comfortably in a big easy chair.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve been to see the Remsen girl.”
“What about her?” Kee asked.
“Nothing, so far. She’s rattled to death, and all upset, of course, but though I think she’s trying to hide something, I’m sure it’s nothing of real importance. I mean, she thinks she knows something about somebody that seems to her of evidential value, but it isn’t.”
“How do you know it isn’t?”
“This way, Mr. Moore. She gets embarrassed at the wrong places.”
“Go on, say more about it.”
“It’s hard to explain so as to make it plausible. But when I ask her about her doings that night, or about her relations with her uncle, or her feeling towards Mrs. Dallas, she’s as unconcerned and un-self-conscious as a child. But when I refer to those waistcoats or that painted pole, she gets queer-like all in a minute.”
“And you gather from that?”
“That she is worried to death about the waistcoats because somebody must have put them in her boathouse to incriminate her, and that scares her. While any talk of the actual murder seems not to disturb her nearly so much.”
“You have imagination, Mr. March,” Moore said, looking at him with a sort of admiration. “Or you couldn’t see all that.”
“No, Mr. Moore,” the policeman looked earnest, “that’s only seeing things as they are. I saw all that in Miss Remsen’s face and attitude. It isn’t imagination a detective needs, it’s ability to read the facts right. It’s the criminal who has to have imagination.”
“This present murderer surely had it,” Moore said.
“Yes, if he is the one who fixed up the doodads around the dead man. Sometimes I think he was, and then again, I don’t see how he could have been.”
“Why?”
“Well, the murder, even though a cruel stroke, was the work of an intelligent mind. A less imaginative brain would have chosen shooting or stabbing as a method. But granting a mentality that could think of and carry out a killing like that nail business, I can’t reconcile it with a personality that would collect those gewgaws and scatter them around.”
“Why wasn’t that done with intent to mislead——”
“Oh, mislead, yes. But why so much of it? That’s the point. A few flowers, now, even the crucifix—all right. But the exaggeration. The superfluity. The piling on of the orange and crackers, the lady’s scarf, the watch in the water pitcher——”
“The missing waistcoats, Totem Pole, and fruit plate,” Keeley broke in, as if unable longer to keep still. “What do you make of all these things, March?”
“What I said. Exaggeration, overdoing. So, we must hunt for a nature, a temperament, that is extravagant and over generous, rather than a well-balanced mind.”
“Good work,” Keeley Moore exclaimed, for he was always ready to acclaim merit, and he thought the detective showed real insight. “And you didn’t discover this extravagant spirit in Miss Remsen?”
“Not a bit of it. She’s a lovely lady, and she may know something she’s keeping quiet about, but she had no hand in the crime. She had no hand in the decoration of the deathbed in that fantastic manner. Motive she had, opportunity she had, but after all they’re not everything.”
I blessed the man in my heart for this whole-souled acquittal of Alma, and I began to feel more interest in the matter.
“Then, who’s your pet suspect?” Kee was asking.
“I have four,” the detective answered, frankly. “Mr. Ames, Mrs. Dallas and the two secretaries.”
“Quite a net full,” Keeley smiled. “Do you care to detail your reasons? Or do you think I ought to do my own investigating?”
“No,” said March, ponderously. He was a big man, heavy of voice as of body, and he seemed to weigh his words as he spoke them. “No, Mr. Moore, I’m only too glad to tell you all I know, to give you all I get, for I know you are the one to make the deductions from my facts.”
“All right, then, go ahead. Motives first, for all four. What about the will?”
“It will be read to-morrow afternoon, after the funeral. But I will tell you the gist of it. It’s really no secret, but better not mention its terms until after they’re made public.”
Moore nodded, and March went on:
“The bulk of the fortune and estate goes to Miss Remsen, as she is Tracy’s only natural heir. There is a gift of fifty thousand dollars to Mrs. Dallas and twenty-five thousand each to the two secretaries. Oh, yes, and fifty thousand dollars to Mr. Ames.”
“This still leaves a big fortune for Miss Remsen?” Lora asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Old Tracy had between two and three millions, I’m told. So with the servants’ bequests and charities included, that only runs to, say, two or three hundred thousand, and the young lady is left very nicely fixed.”
“Servants get much?”
“Griscom, ten thousand, and some stocks besides. Mrs. Fenn about the same. The other servants in proportion, according as to how long they’ve been employed.”
“Well,” Keeley mused, “that’s enough about the conditions of the will to work on. Now, granting greed as the motive, we have your four suspects and Griscom and the cook all possibly guilty.”
“Yes, and you needn’t exclude the other servants. I mean they all had equal motive and the same opportunity. But it never was a servant’s job. Never.”
March looked so positive that Moore asked him to say why.
“No clues,” came the answer. “You see, granting some one of the servants had the ingenuity, the imagination, to cook up this way of doing the killing, he would have taken a hammer and nail from the house stores.”
“Didn’t he?”
“He did not. I’ve combed over the whole kitchen outfit, pantries, offices, storerooms, cellars, garage and every such place, and I know every nail and hammer in the whole place. And there’s no such nail as that one used to end Sampson Tracy’s life in the whole layout.”
“And the hammer?” Moore looked quizzical.
“I grant the hammer is less easily identifiable. But I’ve hunted for fingerprints on the hammers and mallets around the premises, and there are no prints on them except the ones legitimately there. This isn’t proof positive, but it’s fairly so, when you take it in connection with the absence of any such nails as we’re searching for, and the unlikelihood of any of the under servants being able to get access to Mr. Tracy’s apartments. Except for Griscom, none of them is allowed in the living rooms at night, and I don’t suspect Griscom—yet.”
“Now Ames and the two secretaries were inside the house, but Mrs. Dallas was not,” Moore prompted further disclosures.
“Well, like Miss Remsen, Mrs. Dallas’s having a latchkey puts her on an even footing with the people in the house. And I can tell you, anybody with a latchkey could get into that house unheard. I’ve tried it, and the door latch and lock are so slick and so well oiled that they move with absolute silence. Then the thick, soft rugs in the hall and on the stairs are soundproof, and there’s no creaking step anywhere. Of course, all the appointments of that house are perfect, but it’s especially true of the precautions taken to eliminate noise.”
“Purposely so?”
“I daresay. It may be old Tracy had a special objection to noise and so guarded against it. But that doesn’t matter; the fact remains, anybody could go all over that house without making a sound, if careful enough.”
“Then, whether the murderer was a member of the household, or a silent intruder from outside, how did he get away from Mr. Tracy’s suite of rooms, leaving the outer door of the suite locked behind him?”
March looked Keeley Moore squarely in the face.
“Have you no idea?” he said.
“Have you?” countered Moore.
“Oh, yes, I have. He went out the window.”
“Into the lake?”
“Into the lake.”
The two women, who were eagerly listening, were, of course, more surprised than were Keeley and I, but they were no more chagrined.
I could see Kee’s look of blank astonishment, as he heard March’s assertion and saw the look of conviction on the detective’s face.
“Then,” Keeley recovered himself enough to speak coolly, “then, we must look for a master diver, after all.”
“Practically, yes,” March agreed. “But that doesn’t mean a world wonder or a professional champion. It is more to the point that our diver should know the position of the rocks under the windows and the locality of the clear depths.”
“Have you any proof of all this?”
“I sure have. Footprints on the window sill, fingerprints on the window frame and a streak of red paint.”
“Red paint?”
“Yes, which I take to be the scratch of that Totem thing.”
“Why do you take that?”
“Well, to my mind, that Totem means something. You know the old original Totem Poles,—I’ve been looking up the matter,—had to do with clans or family fealty or something like that.”
“You don’t seem to be entirely clear about it,” Lora said, with a little smile.
“No, ma’am, I’m not. But I’m clear enough to make my point that whoever took that pole took it as a memento or mascot or whatever you like to call it of Sampson Tracy. I mean it made it all a personal matter, not the work of an ordinary burglar.”
“No,” Kee agreed, “I can’t see the earmarks of an ordinary burglar.”
“I see what Mr. March is driving at,” Maud declared. “He means that the murderer, whoever he was, was one who knew Mr. Tracy, and had known him intimately. One who was either a family connection or a housemate, and who killed his victim for personal reasons rather than for robbery or sordid motives.”
“Yes, ma’am,” March spoke gratefully, “that’s what I mean, partly. And it seems to me like the work of a friend suddenly turned enemy or a calm, self-restrained nature that something roused to the pitch of homicidal mania.”
“Ah, psychology——” began Lora, but March interrupted.
“No, ma’am, I don’t hold with those modern, hifalutin sciences. Doctor Rogers, now, he knows all about such things, but you didn’t hear him referring to anything of the sort. No, I don’t mean psychology, but only just the natural working of a brain suddenly roused to ungovernable rage.”
“For a reason?”
“For a reason, of course. The reason doubtless being Tracy’s refusal of whatever boon the other was asking.”
“Then this other may be a relative, a friend or a servant?”
“Yes, always remembering it is a person with an ingenious brain and proficiency in diving and swimming.”
“Count ’em up, then,” and Moore held up his hand and checked off on his fingers. “Ames, Everett, Griscom——”
“Mrs. Dallas and Miss Remsen,” March finished for him.
“Oh, leave out the women,” I said, trying to speak lightly, “they can’t dive like pearl fishers.”
“Miss Remsen can,” March asserted, “and it may be that Mrs. Dallas can, though we don’t know for certain.”
“Well,” Lora said, slowly, “give us some more evidence. You can’t sit up and reel off names of people. You might as well include Mrs. Merrill and myself.”
“No, ma’am, you had no motive. You’re not mentioned in the will.”
“But surely then, Mrs. Dallas had no motive. She expected to marry Mr. Tracy—why should she want to kill him?”
“Mrs. Dallas is in love with Mr. Everett. She would rather have her legacy and his legacy than to marry Tracy and have the whole works. Mrs. Dallas is not a grasping sort, but she is a woman of deep passions and she is desperately in love with that good-looking young man.”
“You seem to know the secrets of their hearts, March,” Keeley said. “What about Harper Ames?”
“He’s the puzzle.” March shook his head. “He’s the one I can’t make out. He asked you to take on the case, didn’t he?”
“He certainly did,” Moore stated.
“Well, that’s either because he’s innocent himself, or because he wants to appear so.”
“Can he swim?”
“It’s hard to say who can swim and who can’t. For those who can, can easily pretend they can’t. But that man is as deep as the Sunless Sea, and so far I haven’t been able to size him up exactly.”
“But look here, March, if you’ve footprints and fingerprints, what more do you want? Whose are they, anyway?”
“That’s another queer thing. They’re Miss Remsen’s, but she isn’t the criminal.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve talked with her. Now, I’m puzzled about Ames, he’s a deep and wily sort. But Miss Remsen is a sweet, innocent young girl, and I’m not so inexperienced that I can’t read such. She was scared of me at first, but once I got her calmed down she was straightforward and truthful. I know that, and I’ll stand by it.”
I could have hugged the man in my joy at his staunch partisanship toward Alma, and I asked more questions.
“Yet you say those were her fingerprints on the window frame?”
He gave me a quick look. “You saw them, then? Yes, they were hers, she was there, you know, on the Tuesday afternoon. Her uncle did say she could have the waistcoats for her fancy work, and he gave her the Totem Pole, too. She had the pole in her hand when she went to open a window, as the room was too warm. She remembered its scratching the white paint, and hoped the mark it made could be washed off.”
“And was it the mark of her shoe sole on the window sill?” Keeley asked, and I couldn’t judge whether his suave tone was indicative of suspicion or not.
“No, sir, it wasn’t!” March sounded triumphant. “Miss Remsen’s soles have little round dots in the rubber, these prints showed diamond-shaped dots.”
“That lets her out, then,” Kee said, drawing a long breath of relief, which made me suddenly realize how strongly he had suspected her.
“It does, but she never was in. That girl couldn’t have committed that fearsome crime. It’s against all belief! A hardened man of the world, now; or a callous-hearted servant; or even an experienced woman of society; all these sophisticated minds, yes. But that simple-hearted, innocent young girl—no!”
“I agree to that,” Lora said, “not only because I want to, but because it’s common sense and also psychology. Alma might have shot or stabbed, in a moment of mad rage, but to bring a nail and hammer—it’s too absurd.”
“Do you think the murderer was abnormal?” Maud said to Keeley.
“To my mind all murderers are abnormal,” he replied, thoughtfully. “It surely isn’t normal for any one to kill any one else, so, whether temporarily or permanently, to me a murderer is not only abnormal but insane.”
“Insane in the sense you mean,” March agreed, “that is, on one occasion and on one subject. But that is not what is usually meant by insanity. However, I think we’re of the same mind about that.”
“Did you see the doughty Merivale when you were at Miss Remsen’s house?” Kee asked.
“Yes, and she is a Tartar. She tried to put me off the premises, but Miss Remsen stayed her hand. Also, her better half came to her aid and I had the pair to placate.”
“I didn’t know the Amazon had a mate.”
“Oh, yes. John Merivale, and even bigger and more muscular than ‘Merry’ herself. Miss Remsen is well protected. They are both her absolute slaves, and except for her intervention would willingly have thrown me in the lake.”
“What attitude did you take?”
“Strong arm of the law effect. Said they must answer questions or they’d be haled to court for contempt of same. I scared them good and plenty but I got absolutely no information from them. That is, by word of mouth. But I gleaned a few hints from their unguarded expressions, or their sudden exhibitions of emotion.”
“Such as?”
“Nothing very definite. Only their reactions to other people. The two Merivales seem to think in unison. I gathered that they hate Mrs. Dallas, abhor Mr. Ames, tolerate the two secretaries, and are inordinately jealous and envious of all and sundry servants on the Pleasure Dome estate. That, and their worshipful adoration of Miss Remsen herself, is about all I picked up.”
“Did you go inside the house or only on the porch?”
“Both. I asked to go inside as it was too damp for my rheumatism outside. But, of course, I saw nothing suspicious. No waistcoats or missing fruit plates. The room I was in was just an ordinary, tastefully furnished living room. A piano, davenport, tables, bookcases, lamps—all such as you’d expect to find in a modern home.”
“And the girl lives all alone?”
“Yes. I asked her if she didn’t care for a companion or chaperon, and she smiled and said Merry was all those things to her. She seems entirely able to look after herself, and now, she will be mistress of Pleasure Dome, and I think she’ll be able to look after that.”
“Then you’ve definitely crossed her off the suspect list?”
“Almost. There’s one little point still bothering me, and I shall go again to the Island when both Miss Remsen and her two sentinels are out.”
“Can you get such an opportunity?”
“Yes, to-morrow at the time of the funeral. They will, of course, all attend the services and I shall make a small raid on Whistling Reeds. By the way, what a weird, eerie place it is!”
“Isn’t it!” Lora cried. “It gives me the shivers just to go past it in the boat. But I must go to call on Alma. Shall we go to-day, Maud?”
“Later, perhaps, dear. I’d like to go, I’m fond of Alma and, like Mr. March, I am sure she never had a hand in this terrible affair.”
A maid entered then and announced Mr. Harper Ames.
Keeley looked at March, who nodded, and Ames was shown in.
“Ah, Mr. March, a confab?” he said, after he had greeted the rest of us. “No objections to my joining it, I suppose?”
He took no heed of March’s reply, but seated himself comfortably, and accepted the cigar Keeley offered him.
“I have come,” he said, speaking slowly and distinctly, “to see if you are investigating the Tracy matter, Mr. Moore. To see what you have accomplished so far and to learn if you hope for success.”
His pause and his inquiring glance demanded a reply, and Keeley said, with equal slowness and distinctness:
“Yes, Mr. Ames, I am investigating the Tracy matter. I have accomplished so far only some preliminary work, and I hope for success, of course, or I shouldn’t keep on with the case.”
“One more question, then. Are you making your investigation at my request, at my expense, and under my direction?”
“No, I think not.” Keeley spoke with utmost good nature, but with a decided shake of his head. “You see, it irks me to work for another, if I am interested in a case for myself.”
“Why are you so interested in this case?”
Kee stared at him.
“Because it is a case to interest all residents of Deep Lake district. Because murder has been done in our hitherto peaceful community and every right-thinking man must or should be interested. If by my experience and training I am better able than some to look into the facts and indications of the evidence gathered, it is surely my duty to do so, regardless of requests or directions from anybody else.”
“Well, then, after all,” Ames smiled, “I can’t see that it matters much, except that if you’re working for me, you get paid for it, if you’re on your own, you don’t.”
I couldn’t quite understand this man. Suave, polished, and of gentle voice and correct manners, he now and then broke out with a brusque, blunt speech that seemed to betray a cruder nature beneath his veneer.
Yet he had said nothing really rude, had only stated the bald facts of the matter.
I glanced at March. He too, was covertly studying Ames. I felt sure he was puzzled in the same way I was.
Keeley, however, seemed ready to meet Ames on his own ground.
“Yes,” he added, “you’ve struck it right. Work for you and take your money, or go it alone and get no pay. Well, Mr. Ames, I’m going it alone this trip. But, if I don’t take your money, mayn’t I ask for something else from you? Won’t you give me some advice or some data or some facts you’ve picked up——”
“Why should I?”
“Because, though I’m not working at your direction, I shall do just as good work, in fact, just the same work as if I were. Therefore, you will get the results the same as if you paid for them. Oughtn’t that to make you willing to help in any way you can?”