Whilethese things had been happening in the country, my Sunday in town had been almost equally eventful.
I had not been surprised on receiving Fred’s telegram the evening before to find that the name it contained was that of the young artist. Had he not already told me that Greywood was supposed to have been the favoured suitor? And, knowing May Derwent as I did, I had felt sure from the very first that she must have entertained the liveliest feelings of trust and liking—to say the least—for the man whom she permitted to visit her on that Tuesday evening. That the cur had not known enough to respect the privilege filled me with mingled feelings of rage and delight. Had he not offended my divinity there would have been no chance for me, and yet that he had dared to do so made me long to punish him.
But to do this I must first find him. His name didnot appear either in the Social Register or the Directory, but I thought that by visiting the various studio buildings dotted over the city I should eventually find the one in which he lived.
So I got up bright and early the following morning, determined to begin my search at once. As I sat down to my breakfast with a hopeful heart and an excellent appetite, I little thought what a bomb-shell was contained in the papers lying so innocently beside my plate.
I had hardly read the terrible news before I was out of the house and on my way to Merritt’s. Luckily, I found the detective at home, calmly eating his breakfast. He showed no signs of surprise at my early appearance, and invited me to share his meal with simple courtesy. As I had hurried off without stopping to eat anything, I thought that I had better do so, although I grudged the time spent in such a trifling pursuit, while so much hung in the balance and every minute might be precious.
“Well, Mr. Merritt,” I exclaimed, “what is this fairytale about Greywood? I see from the papers that your people do not put much faith in the identification.”
“We do, and we don’t,” he answered, “but it is not proved yet, and, while there is still some doubt about it, I thought it as well for the gentlemen of the press to be kept guessing a little longer.”
“But what doyouthink? Surely, you do not believe the murdered man to be Greywood?” I urged.
“Doctor, I’m afraid I do.”
“You do?” I cried.
“Yes.”
“But when I saw you, on Friday, you were equally sure of Miss Derwent’s innocence.”
“Ah! that was Friday! Besides, I have not said that I believe the young lady guilty; I merely say that I believe Maurice Greywood, and not Allan Brown, to be the name of the victim.”
“But, then, you must think that she killed him,” I insisted.
“Not necessarily. Have you never thought of the possibility that Allan Derwent (for we will assume that he was the man whom you saw in her apartment) might be the murderer?”
“No,” I confessed, “that had not occurred to me.”
“But it ought to have, for of all the theories we have as yet entertained, this one is by far the most probable. You see,” he continued, “you allow your judgment to be warped by your unwillingness to associate the young lady, even indirectly, with a crime.”
“Perhaps so,” I acknowledged.
“Now, I must tell you that, however innocent Miss Derwent may eventually prove to be, since my last talk with you I have become convinced that the murderwas committed in her parlour, and nowhere else.” Mr. Merritt spoke very earnestly, leaning across the table to watch the effect on me of what he was saying.
“Ah,” I exclaimed angrily, “then you deceived me——”
“Gently, gently, young man; I don’t deceive anybody. I told you that I wished the young lady well; so I do—that I believed in her innocence; I still do so. I said that the information I had received from you materially helped her case, which it most assuredly did. Had you withheld certain facts it would have been my duty—my painful duty, I acknowledge—to have arrested Miss Derwent last Saturday.”
“But why?” I inquired.
“Because all the evidence pointed towards her, and because my belief in her innocence rested on no more solid foundation than what is called intuition, and intuition is a quicksand to build upon.”
“But what was there to point to her except that a negro boy thought that the dead man resembled Greywood?”
“Ah, you acknowledge that her visitor was Mr. Greywood?”
“Yes, I grant you that, but what of it? I am convinced he has not been murdered.”
“But why?” demanded the detective. “Now, listen to this. The body is identified by two peopleas Greywood’s. Greywood disappears at about the same time that the crime was committed. We know that the corpse must have been hidden somewhere in the Rosemere for twenty-four hours. Where could it have been more easily secreted than in the Derwents’ apartment, into which no outsider or servant entered? And lastly, it would have required two people to carry, even for a short distance, a body of its size and weight; but as the young lady was not alone, but had with her the man and woman whom you saw, this difficulty is also disposed of. From all this, I conclude that the Derwents’ flat was the scene of the tragedy.”
“But why should Greywood have been killed?” I asked. “What possible motive could there have been?”
“Oh, it is easy enough to imagine motives, although I do not guarantee having hit on the right one. But what do you think of this for a guess? Miss Derwent, who knows that her brother may any day be in need of a hiding-place, has given him the key to their back door. Coming to town, she meets Greywood, dines with him, and invites him to spend the evening with her (having some reason for supposing that her brother is safely out of the way). During this visit they have a violent quarrel, and, in the midst of it, young Derwent, who has come in through the kitchen, suddenly appears. Let us also presume that he is intoxicated. He discovers his sister alone with a man, who is unknownto him, and with whom she is engaged in a bitter dispute. The instinct to protect her rises within him. His eyes fall on a weapon, lying, let us suppose, on the parlour table. He seizes it, and in his drunken rage, staggers across the room and plunges it into Greywood’s heart. What girl could be placed in a more terrible position? She is naturally forced to shield her brother. So she hits on a plan for diverting suspicion from him, which would have been successful, if Fate had not intervened in the most extraordinary way. You remember, that it came out that on Wednesday she went in and out of the building very frequently. During one of these many comings and goings, she manages to extract the key of the vacant apartment, to have it copied, and to return it without its absence being noticed. They then wait till the early hours of the morning before venturing to move the body, which they carry to the place where it was found. Unfortunately for them, they locked the dead man in, and in this way rendered their detection much more easy. For it limited the number of suspected persons to three—to the three people, in fact, who could have had the key in their possession, even for a short time. On returning to their own rooms, they discover that they have lost something of great importance. The young man searches for it long and vigorously. He does not find it——”
“How do you know he didn’t find it?” I interrupted.
“BecauseIfound it,” asserted the detective triumphantly.
“Indeed! And what was it?”
“The handle—or, to be more accurate, the head—of the fatal weapon.”
“Really!” I exclaimed; “you found it? Where?”
“It had fallen in between the dead man’s trousers and the folds of his shirt.”
“It must be pretty small, then.”
“It is. Look at it,” and he laid on the table a jewelled dagger-hilt about an inch and a half long.
“That!” I exclaimed contemptuously; “why, that is nothing but a toy.”
“Not a toy,” replied Mr. Merritt, “but an ornament. A useful ornament; for it is the head of one of those jewelled hat-pins that have been so fashionable of late. A dagger with the hilt encrusted with precious stones is quite a common design.”
“Did you find the pin itself?” I asked.
“No, I did not,” the detective answered regretfully.
“How do you account for the handle being where you found it?”
“I think that in all probability the pin was removed from the body immediately after it had done its work, and in doing so the head was wrenched off. Duringthe excitement which followed no one noticed where it fell, and its loss was not discovered till the victim had been disposed of. Young Derwent evidently expected the place to be searched, which accounts for the care with which he tried to remove all traces of his presence, and his extreme anxiety to find this, which, he feared, if discovered on the premises, might prove a sure clue. Now, that theory hangs together pretty well, don’t it?” wound up the detective.
Without answering him, I inquired: “And what do you mean to do now?”
“I’m afraid I shall have to arrest Miss Derwent, as we can find no trace of her two companions. By the way, it is as you supposed;—the man you saw leaving the building was no tradesman, so he is probably the person we want. I have, therefore, given his description to the police, and hope soon to have some news of him.”
“So, Mr. Merritt, you would really arrest a girl on such flimsy evidence, and for a crime you do not believe her to have committed?” I inquired indignantly.
“As for the evidence, I think it is fairly complete,” answered the detective, “and I would not arrest Miss Derwent if I were not convinced that she is implicated in this affair, and think that this is the surest way of getting hold of the precious couple. I can’t allow acriminal to slip through my fingers for sentimental reasons, and every hour’s delay renders their escape more possible. The girl may be innocent,—I believe she is; but that one of that trio is guilty I am perfectly sure.”
“Are you, really?” I exclaimed. “Well, I am not, and, if you will listen to me for a few minutes, I think I can easily prove to you that you are wrong. For since Friday I, too, have thought of a new and interesting point in connection with this case.” The detective looked indulgently at me.
“You seem to forget,” I continued, “and of this fact I am quite certain, that the victim met his death while wholly or partly unconscious.”
Merritt gave a slight start, and his face fell.
“The autopsy must have been made by this time. Did not the doctor find traces of alcohol or a drug?” I demanded.
“Yes,” admitted the detective, “alcohol was found in large quantities.”
“Now, Greywood had been dining quietly with a lady, and it is inconceivable that he could have been drunk, or that, being in that condition, she should not have noticed it, which she could not have done—otherwise she would certainly not have allowed him to go up-stairs with her.”
“That is a good point,” said the detective.
“Besides, the corpse bears every indication of prolonged dissipation. Now, no one has hinted that Greywood drank.”
“No, but he may have done so, for all that,” said Mr. Merritt.
“He could not have done so to the extent of leaving such traces after death without its being widely known,” I asserted. “The dead man must have been an habitual drunkard, remember, and that the young artist certainly was not. No, if you persist in believing the murdered man to be Greywood, you must also believe that Miss Derwent lured him to her rooms, while he was so intoxicated as to be almost, if not quite helpless, and there, either killed him herself or allowed her brother to kill him. In the latter case, do you not think a lady’s hat-pin rather a feeble weapon for a young desperado to select? And that that description can be applied to Allan Derwent, everything I have heard of him tends to show.
“On the other hand, let us consider for a moment the probability of the body being Allan Brown’s. What do we find? When last seen he was already noticeably intoxicated, and what is there more likely than that the daughter of a saloon-keeper should have no scruples about offering him the means of becoming still more so? And please notice another thing. You told me yourself that Mrs. Atkins had spent the greaterpart of her life among a very fast lot—so that it is perfectly natural to find a man of the deceased’s habits among her familiar associates. But what is more unlikely than that a girl brought up as Miss Derwent has been should go so much out of her way as to choose such a man for her friend? And then, again, remember how the two women behaved when confronted with the corpse.
“Miss Derwent walked calmly in and deliberately lifted her heavy veil, which could easily have hidden from us whatever emotions she may have felt. Lifts it, I say, before looking at the body. Does that look like guilt? And what does Mrs. Atkins do? She shows the greatest horror and agitation. Now, mind you, I do not infer from this that she killed the man, but I do say that it proves that the man was no stranger to her. And now I come to the hat-pin. You assume, because you find a certain thing, and I saw a search carried on, that the man was looking for the object you found. What reason have you for believing this, except that it fits in very prettily with your theory of the crime? None. You cannot trace the possession of such an ornament to Miss Derwent, can you?” The detective shook his head. “Ah! I thought not. And even if you did, what would it prove? You say yourself that the design is not an uncommon one.”
“No, but it certainly would be considered a very remarkable coincidence, and one that would tell heavily against her,” the detective replied.
“Yes, I suppose so; but we needn’t cross that bridge till we come to it. As yet, you know nothing as to the ownership of the pin. But I want to call your attention to another point. If two people have identified the body as the young artist, so have two others recognised it as that of Allan Brown, and I assert that the two former are not as worthy of credence as the two latter.”
“How so,” inquired Mr. Merritt.
“In the first place, Jim was much less positive as to the supposed identity of the deceased than Joe was. You admit that; consequently, I consider Joe’s word in this case better than Jim’s, and Mrs. Atkins is certainly a more reliable witness than Mrs. Mulroy, an Irish charwoman, with all her national love of a sensational story.”
“That is all very fine,” said Mr. Merritt, “but Mrs. Atkins emphatically denied knowing the deceased.”
“In words, yes; but don’t you think this is one of the cases where actions speak louder than words? By the way, I gather from your still being willing to discuss the corpse’s identity that you have not been able to trace this mysterious Brown?”
“You are right. The only thing we have foundout is, that the berth on the Boston train which was bought in his name was never occupied.”
“And yet, in the face of all this, you still think of arresting Miss Derwent; of blighting a girl’s life in such a wanton manner?”
“Doctor, you’re right; I may have been hasty. Mrs. Greywood, the young man’s mother, arrives to-morrow, and her testimony will be decisive. Should the body not be that of her son (and you have almost convinced me that it is not), then Miss Derwent’s affairs are of no further interest to me, and who she may, or may not, entertain in her apartment it is not my business to inquire.”
After a little more desultory talk, I left him to his morning paper. I was now more than ever determined to do a little work in his line myself, and felt quite sure that talent of a superior order lay dormant within me. Only the great difficulty was to know where to begin. I must get nearer the scene of the tragedy, I concluded; I must cultivate McGorry and be able to prowl around the Rosemere undisturbed. What a triumph if I should discover the missing hat, for instance!
All this time I was sauntering idly up-town, and as I did so I fell in with a stream of people coming from the Roman Catholic Cathedral. Walking among them, I noticed a woman coming rapidly towards me,who smiled at me encouragingly, even from quite a distance. Her face seemed strangely familiar, although I was unable to place her. Where had I seen those flashing black eyes before? Ah! I had it,—Mme. Argot. She was alone, and as she came nearer I saw she not only recognised me, but that she was intending to stop and speak to me. I was considerably surprised, but slowed down also, and we were just opposite to each other when her husband suddenly stepped to her side. A moment before I could have sworn he was not in sight. It was quite uncanny. His wife started and glanced fearfully at him, then tossing her head defiantly she swept past me with a beaming bow. He took off his hat most respectfully, and his long sallow face remained as expressionless as a mask. But I was sure that his piercing black eyes looked at me with secret hostility. The whole incident only occupied a minute, but it left a deep impression upon me, and started me off on an entirely new train of thought. What had the detective said? The guilty person must have been able to procure, for some time, however short, the key to the vacant apartment. We only knew of three people who were in a position to have done this. Miss Derwent, the French butler—well, why not the French butler? Those eyes looked capable of anything. I was sure that his wife was afraid of him, for I was certain that she had meant tostop and speak to me, and had been prevented from doing so by his sudden appearance. But what could she have wished to say to me? And why that gleam of hatred in her husband’s eye? I felt myself so innocent towards them both. In fact, I had not even thought of them since the eventful Thursday, and might easily have passed her by unnoticed if she had not been so eager to attract my attention. Well, it would be queer if I had tumbled on the solution of the Rosemere mystery!
As I was now almost opposite my club, I decided to drop in there before going in search of McGorry. There were hardly any people about, and when I entered the reading-room I found that it contained but one other person besides myself. The man was very intent upon his paper, but as I approached he raised his head, and I at once recognised Mr. Stuart. The very person, of all others, I most wanted to see. Fate was certainly in a kindly mood to-day, and I determined it should not be my fault if I did not make the most of the opportunity thus unexpectedly afforded me. So when I caught his eye I bowed, and walked boldly up to him. He answered my salutation politely, but coldly, and appeared anxious to return to his reading; but I was too full of my purpose to be put off by anything. I said: “Mr. Stuart, you have quite forgotten me, which is not at all surprising,as I only met you once before, and that time was not introduced to you.”
He smiled distantly, and looked inquiringly at me through his single eye-glass.
“It was last Thursday at the Rosemere,” I explained.
He appeared startled. I think the idea of my being a detective suggested itself to him, so I continued, reassuringly:
“My name is Fortescue, and I am a doctor. My office isvis-à-visto your building, so, probably on account of my proximity, I was called in to see the victim, and have naturally become much interested in this very mysterious affair.”
“Indeed!” he remarked.
This was not encouraging, but I persisted.
“A very remarkable case, isn’t it?” I said, trying to appear at ease.
“A most unpleasant business,” he replied curtly.
My obstinacy was now aroused, so I drew a chair up and sat down.
“Mr. Stuart, I hope you won’t think me very impertinent if I ask you whether you have any reason to be dissatisfied with your two servants?”
He now looked thoroughly alarmed.
“No; why do you ask?”
“You probably know that the identity of the dead man has never been established?” I continued.
“On the contrary,” interrupted Mr. Stuart, “I am just reading an account of how it has been ascertained that the body is that of a man called Greywood.”
“Oh,” I replied airily, “that is only a bit of yellow journalism. If you read to the end, you will find that they admit that the police place no credence in their story. I have just been talking to Mr. Merritt about it——”
“Merritt, the detective, you mean?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Well, he must be an interesting man. I should like to see him.”
“Why, you have seen him,” I said; “he was the short, clean-shaven man who stood beside me, and afterwards followed you out.”
“Really!” he exclaimed; “I wish I had known that; I have always taken a great interest in the man. He has cleared up some pretty mysterious crimes.”
“I am sure he would be only too delighted to meet you. He’s quite a nice fellow, too, and terribly keen about this murder,” I added, bringing the conversation back to the point I wanted discussed.
“Yes?” said Mr. Stuart. “Of course, I am interested in it, too; but I confess that to have a thing like that occur in a building where one lives is really most unpleasant. I have been pestered to death by reporters.”
“Well, I assure you I am not one,” I said, with a laugh; “but, all the same, I should like to ask you a few questions.”
“What are they?” he cautiously inquired.
“Do your butler and his wife get along well together?”
“Why do you want to know?” he asked, in his turn. I told him what had just happened. He smiled.
“Oh, that doesn’t mean anything. Celestin is insanely jealous of his wife, whom he regards as the most fascinating of her sex, and has a habit of watching her, I believe, so as to guard against a possible lover.”
“Do they quarrel much?”
“Not lately, I am glad to say. About a year ago it got so bad that I was forced to tell them that if I heard them doing so again, I should dismiss them both.”
“Dear me, was it as bad as that?”
“Why, yes. One evening, when I came home, I heard shrieks coming from the kitchen, and, on investigating, found Celestin busily engaged in chastising his wife!”
“Really?”
“Yes, and the funniest thing is, that she did not seem to mind it much, although she must have beenblack and blue from the beating he gave her. It was some trouble about a cousin, I believe; but, as they are both excellent servants, I thought it best not to inquire too particularly into the business.”
“And have they been on amicable terms since then?”
“Oh, yes. And, curiously enough, their behaviour to each other is positively lover-like. Even in the old days, she would flirt and he would beat her, and then they would bill and coo for a month. At least, so I judged from the little I saw of them.”
I was now anxious to be off, but he seemed to have overcome his aversion or distrust, and detained me for some time longer, discussing the tragedy.
When I reached the Rosemere, I found McGorry sitting in his private office, and remarkably glad to see me. I offered him a cigar, and we sat down to a comfortable smoke. At first, we talked of nothing but the murder, but at last I managed to bring the conversation around to gossip about the different people in the building. This was no easy matter, for the fellow considered it either impolitic or disloyal to discuss his tenants, but, luckily, when I broached the subject of the Argots, he unbosomed himself. He assured me that they were most objectionable people, and he couldn’t see why Mr. Stuart wanted to employ Dagos, as he called them. He told me that the woman was alwayshaving men hanging around, and that her husband was very violent and jealous.
“But they have stopped quarrelling, I hear.”
“Stopped, is it?” he exclaimed with fine scorn. “I suppose Mr. Stuart told you that. Little he knows about it. They darsn’t make a noise when he’s about. But Argot’s been terrible to her lately. Why, they made such a row that I had to go in there the other day and tell him if he didn’t shut up I’d complain to Mr. Stuart. He glared at me, but they’ve been quieter since then. I guess she’s a bad lot, and deserves what she gets, or else she wouldn’t stand it.”
“I say, McGorry, you have seen nothing of a straw hat, have you?”
“Lord! Hasn’t Mr. Merritt been bothering me to death about that hat? No, I haven’t found one.”
That was all I could get out of him. Not much, but still something.
Returning to my office, I sat for a long time pondering over all I had seen and heard that morning, and the longer I thought the more likely did it seem that the corpse was that of some lover of Madame Argot’s whom her husband had killed in an attack of jealous frenzy. I had never for a moment considered the possibility of the body being Greywood’s, and Merritt thought the objections to its being that of the vanished Brown equally insurmountable. I was,therefore, forced to believe in the presence on that fatal Tuesday of yet another man. That he had not entered by the front door was certain; very well, then, he must have come in by the back one. Of course, that there should have been three people answering to the same description in the building at the time when the murder occurred seemed an incredible conglomeration of circumstances, but had not the detective himself suggested such a possibility? The most serious objections to the supposition that Argot had murdered the man were: first, the smallness of the wound, and, secondly, the distance of the place where the body was found from Stuart’s apartment. The first difficulty I disposed of easily. Merritt had failed to convince me that a hat-pin had caused the fellow’s death, and I thought it much more likely that the ornament found on the corpse was a simple bauble which had nothing to do with the tragedy. Now, a small stiletto—or, hold, I had it—a skewer! A skewer was a much more likely weapon than a hat-pin, anyhow, besides being just the sort of a thing a butler would find ready to his hand.
The next objection was more difficult to meet, yet it did not seem impossible that, having killed the man, Argot should, with his wife’s connivance, have secreted him in one of the closets which his master never opened, and then (having procured a duplicatekey) have carried the body, in the wee small hours of the morning, up the three flights of stairs, and laid it in the empty apartment.
Thoroughly satisfied with this theory, I went off to lunch.
Thatvery evening, as I was sitting quietly in my office, trying to divert my mind from the murder by reading, my boy came in and told me that there was a lady in the waiting-room who wanted to see me. There was something so peculiar about the way he imparted this very commonplace information that my curiosity was aroused; but I refrained from questioning him, and curtly bade him show the lady in.
When she appeared I was no longer surprised at his manner, for a more strange and melodramatic figure I have seldom seen, even on the stage. The woman was tall and draped, or rather shrouded, in a long, black cloak, and a thick black veil was drawn down over her face. Her costume, especially considering the excessive heat, and that the clock pointed to 9.15, was alone enough to excite comment; but to a singularity in dress she added an even greater singularity of manner. She entered the room hesitatingly, and paused near thethreshold to glance apprehensively about her, as if fearing the presence of some hidden enemy. The woman must be mad, I thought, as I motioned her to a chair and sat down opposite to her.
With a theatrical gesture, she threw back her veil, and to my astonishment I recognised the handsome, rotund features of—Madame Argot! She smiled, evidently enjoying my bewilderment.
“Meestair Docteur, I no disturb you?” she inquired.
“Certainly not, madame; what can I do for you?”
“Ah, meestair,” she whispered, looking towards the door, “I so afraid zat my ’usban’ ’e come back and fin’ me gone; ’e terribly angry!”
“Why should he be angry?” I asked.
“He no like me to speak viz you. He no vant me to show you zis,” she answered, pointing mysteriously to her left shoulder.
“What is it that he doesn’t want me to see?”
“I go show you,” and, opening her dress, she disclosed two terrible bruises, each as large as the palm of my hand; “and zat is not all,” she continued, and, as she turned round, I saw that a deep gash disfigured one of her shoulder-blades.
I was really shocked.
“How did this happen?” I inquired.
“Oh, I fall,” she said, smiling coquettishly at me.
“A very queer fall,” I muttered.
The wound was several days old and not serious, but, owing to neglect, had got into a very bad condition.
“Ah, zat is better,” she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, when I had thoroughly cleansed the cut. I was just preparing to bandage it up, when she stopped me.
“No, meestair; not zat! My ’usban’, ’e see zat, ’e know I come here, and zen ’e angry. Ze vashin’ and ze salve zey make me better!”
“But look here, my good woman,” I exclaimed, indignantly; “do you mean to say that your husband is such a brute that he objects to your having your wound dressed—a wound that you got in such a peculiar way, too?”
Her manner changed instantly; she drew herself haughtily up, and began buttoning up her dress.
“My ’usban’ ’e no brute; ’e verra nice man; ’e love’ me verra much.”
“Really!”
“Yes,” she asserted, “’e love me much,oh oui, je vous assure qu’il m’adore!” and she tossed her head and looked at me through the thick lashes of her half-closed eyes; “’e man, you know, ’e sometime jealous,” she continued, smiling, as if his jealousy were a feather in her cap.
“Well, Madame Argot; that cut should be looked after, and, as it is in such a place that you cannot properly attend to it yourself, you must come in hereevery day, and I will dress it for you. Your husband cannot carry his devotion so far as to object to your covering it with a clean piece of linen, so I advise you to do that.”
“Alla right, meestair, and zank you verra much. I come again ven I can, ven my ’usban’ ’e go out sometime,” and, after carefully wrapping herself up again, she sallied forth with infinite precautions.
Of course, the woman is a silly fool, and eaten up with vanity, but she had been pretty roughly handled, and that she should consider such treatment a tribute to her charms, seemed to me perfectly incomprehensible.
After reading for some time longer, I decided to go to bed, and, therefore, went into the front room to turn the lights out. Having done so, I lingered near the window, for the temperature here was at least several degrees cooler than the room I had just left. Although it was still early, the street appeared to be completely deserted, not a footfall was to be heard. As I stood there, half hidden by the curtain, a queer muffled noise fell upon my ears. It seemed to come from outside, and I moved nearer to the window, so as to try and discover what it could be. As I did so, a white face, not a foot away, peered suddenly into mine. I was so startled that I fell back a step, and before I recovered myself the creature was gone. I rushed out into the hall, and, unfastening the front door as quickly as Icould, dashed into the street. Not a soul was in sight! The slight delay had given the fellow a chance to escape. Who could it have been? I wondered. A burglar, tempted by my open window? Or Argot, perhaps? This latter supposition was much the more alarming. What if he had seen his wife come out of my office? I thought of the murdered man, and shuddered. Notwithstanding the heat, I shut and bolted the window, and, as an extra precaution, also locked the door which connected the front room with my office and bedroom. I had no mind to be the next victim of an insane man’s jealousy. All night long I was haunted by that white face! More and more it appeared to me to resemble Argot, till at last I determined to see Mr. Merritt and ask him if we had not sufficient grounds to warrant the Frenchman’s arrest.
But when the morning came, things looked very different. Fred’s second letter (which I have inserted in the place where it rightly belongs in the development of this story) arrived, and the thought of May Derwent’s illness put everything else out of my mind. I might as well confess at once, that with me it had been a case of love at first sight, and that from the day I saw her at the Rosemere the dearest wish of my heart was to have her for my wife. And now she was ill and another man—a man who also loved her—had been summoned by her to fill the place I coveted. Theconsciousness ofhisdevotion would uphold her during her illness, and his company help to while away the weary hours of convalescence. And here was I, tied to my post, and forced to abandon the field to another without even a struggle. For I felt it would be little short of murder to desert my patients while the thermometer stood high in the nineties and most of the other doctors were out of town. But if I could not go to my lady, she should, at any rate, have something of mine to bear her company. Rushing out to a nearby florist’s I bought out half his stock. Of course, my gift had to go to her anonymously, but, even so, it was a comfort to me to think that, perhaps, my roses might be chosen to brighten her sick room. At all events, they would serve to remind her that there were other men in the world who loved her besides the one who was with her at that moment.
The afternoon edition of theNew York Buglecontained the announcement that Mrs. Greywood had arrived in town that morning, and, on being shown the body of the Rosemere victim, had emphatically denied that it was that of her son. She thinks that the latter has gone off cruising, which he has been expecting to do for some time past; and that, of course, would explain his not having been heard from. The possibility of May Derwent’s having been, even indirectly implicated in the murder, was thus finally disposed of.But I had been so sure, from the very first, of the ultimate result of their investigations, that Mrs. Greywood’s statement was hardly a relief to me. Of course, I was very glad that no detective would now have an excuse for prying into my darling’s affairs. Otherwise, I was entirely indifferent to their suspicions.
But these various occurrences helped to obliterate the memory of the events of the previous night, and, as I had no time to hunt up the detective, I decided to think no more about my strange adventure.
I was rather late in leaving the hospital that afternoon, and when I reached home my boy told me that several patients were already waiting for me. I hurried into my office and sat down at my desk, on which a number of letters had accumulated. I was looking these over when I heard the door open, and, glancing up, my eyes fell upon—Argot! I stared at him for a moment in silence. Could this reserved and highly respectable person be my visitor of the night before? Never, I concluded. He stood respectfully near the door, till I motioned him to a seat. He sat gingerly down on the very edge of the chair, and, laying his hat on my desk, pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. I waited for him to begin, which he seemed to find some difficulty in doing. At last he said:
“Meestair, I come about a verra sad zing.”
“Yes?” I inquired.
“You ’ave seen my vife?”
I did not answer at once; then, as I was uncertain how much he knew, I decided that it would be safest to confine myself to a bare nod.
“She is a verra fine woman, not?” he demanded, with visible pride.
“Very much so,” I assented. What could he be leading up to, I wondered?
“But, helas,” he continued, “she is a little—” here he touched his forehead significantly, while he gazed at me less keenly from under his bushy brows.
“Really, you surprise me,” was all I said.
“She quite wild some time,” he insisted.
“Indeed?”
“Yes; she do some strange zings; she verra good vife—sough—verra good cook.” He paused.
“What are you telling me all this for? What do you want me to do about it?” I inquired.
“Eh bien, Meestair; it is because she vant to come to see you, and she like you to be sorry, so she ’ave t’rowed herself down and ’ave ’urt ’erself. She lika ze mens too much,” he added, fiercely, while a malignant expression flitted across his face.
It no longer seemed to me impossible that this middle-aged butler and the apparition of the night before could be identical, and there and then I determinedthat in future a pistol should repose in the top drawer of my desk.
“Perhaps your wife is slightly hysterical,” I suggested.
Now, for the first time, my eyes left his face, and happened to fall on his hat, which was lying brim upwards at my elbow. My astonishment, when I noticed that the initials A. B. were printed in large letters on the inner band, was so great that I could hardly control myself. I looked for the maker’s name—Halstead, Chicago, I made out. Could this be the missing hat? It seemed incredible. Argot would never dare display so openly such a proof of his guilt! But if he were demented (which I firmly believed him to be) would not this flaunting of his crime be one of the things one might expect of an insane man? I had been so startled that it was some minutes before I dared raise my eyes, fearing that their expression would betray me. I have absolutely no idea what he was talking about during that time, but the next sentence I caught was: “She vill, she vill come, but you jus’ say, nonsense, zat is nossing, and zen she go.”
“Very well,” I assured him, anxious to get rid of the fellow. “I quite understand;” and, rising from my chair, I dismissed him with a nod.
My office was still full of people, and I think thatseeing those other patients was about the most difficult thing I ever did. But at last even that ordeal was over, and I was able to start out in search of the detective. I had a good deal of difficulty in finding him, and, after telephoning all over creation, at last met him accidentally, not far from the Rosemere. I was so excited that I hailed him from a long way off, pointing significantly the while to my hat. By Jove, you should have seen him sprint! I had no idea those short legs of his could make such good time. We met almost directly in front of my door.
“What is it?” he panted.
Without answering, I took him by the elbow and led him into the house. He sank exhausted into one of my office chairs.
“What’s up?” he repeated.
“Well,” I began slowly, for I meant to enjoy my small triumph to the full, “I only wanted to ask you if you have yet found the missing hat?”
“No; have you?”
“No; I can’t say I have.” His face fell perceptibly. “But I know where a straw hat bearing the name of a Chicago hatter, and with the initials, ‘A. B.,’ stamped on the inside band, can be found,” I added.
“You don’t say so? Where is it?” He spoke quietly, but I noticed that his eyes glistened.
“I don’t quite know where it is at this moment, but when I last saw it, it was on this desk.”
“On this desk, and you allowed it—” He paused, speechless with disgust.
“Certainly, I allowed it to be taken away, if that is what you mean. However, you can easily get it again. It is not far off. But, I assure you, I have no intention of appearing in the character of the corpse in another sensational tragedy.”
“Who brought it here?” demanded Mr. Merritt.
“Well, do you think that Argot would be a likely person?” I asked.
“Argot!” He was evidently surprised.
“Yes, Argot.” And I told him all that I had lately discovered about the couple, and of their separate visits to me. Neither did I fail to mention the strange apparition of the night before, which had caused me so much uneasiness.
He seemed much impressed, and stared gravely before him for some minutes.
“You are really not at all sure that the white face belonged to Argot, are you?”
“No,” I acknowledged.
“Well, Doctor,” he continued, after a slight pause, “it’s a queer thing that, just as you have succeeded in persuading me that a hat-pin is hardly a masculine weapon, and that, therefore, I ought to look fora murderess, and not a murderer, you, on the other hand, should have come to the conclusion that a man is the perpetrator of this crime.”
“Ah! but you see, Mr. Merritt, I don’t believe the victim was killed by a hat-pin. I think he was pierced through the heart by a skewer, which, in a kitchen, Argot would have found under his hand.”
“Well, Doctor, you may be right. Live and learn, I always say. I shall at once call on the Argots, and have a look at this hat.”
“Don’t you think you had better have him arrested, first, and question him afterwards? I am convinced he is insane, and likely to become violent at any moment; we don’t want any more murders, you know.”
“That is all very well, Doctor; but I can’t have the fellow arrested till I have something to go on. The hat you saw may not be the one we want; or, again, Argot may have found it.”
“Well, if you insist on bearding him, let me go with you.”
“Certainly not. You are young, and—well, not uncalculated to arouse his marital jealousy, while I,” patting his portly person, “am not likely to cause him any such anxieties. Even age and fat have their uses, sometimes.”
“But he may try to cut your throat,” I objected.
“One of my men will be just outside, and will probablyget to me before he has quite finished me.” He had risen, and stood with his hand on the door-knob.
“Look here, Doctor, I’d like to bet you that Argot is innocent, and that a woman, and a mighty pretty woman, too, is the guilty party.”
“All right, Mr. Merritt; I’ll take you. I bet you fifty dollars that a man committed this crime.”
“Done!” exclaimed the detective, and, pulling out his pocket-book, he recorded the bet with great care. He looked at me for a moment longer with one of those quiet enigmatic smiles of his, and departed.
I watched him cross the street and enter the back door of the Rosemere. A moment afterwards a shabby-looking man came slouching along and stopped just outside, apparently absorbed in watching something in the gutter. The detective remained only a minute or so in the building, and when he came out he gave me a slight nod, which I interpreted as a sign that Argot was not at home. He took not the slightest notice of the tramp, and, turning north, trotted briskly up town.
As I watched him disappear, I wondered what made him so sure of the Frenchman’s innocence, and I tried vainly to guess who the woman could be whom he now had in mind. Miss Derwent, I was glad to say, was out of the question. He himself had proved to me by the most convincing arguments that Mrs.Atkins could not be guilty. And who else was there to suspect? For the criminal must have been an inmate of the building. That was one of the few facts which the detective claimed was established beyond a doubt.