“Being an expert in the lyin’ game, I do,” and Fibsy winked.
“It isn’t only that. It’s not only that they’re unwilling to lie about it, but they haven’t the—the, well, ingenuity to contrive a plausible yarn.”
“Not being lying experts, just as I said,” Fibsy observed. “Well, we all have our own kind of cleverness. Now, mine is finding things. Want to see an example?”
“Yes, I do.”
“All right. How far did you say the shooter person stood from his victim?”
“About ten feet—but I daresay it might be two or three feet, more or less.”
“No; they can judge closer’n that by the powder marks. The truth wouldn’t vary more’n a foot or so, from their say. Now, s’posin’ the shooter did throw the revolver out of the bay window, as the three Wheelers agree, severally, they did do, where would it most likely land?”
“In that clump of rhododendrons.”
“Yep; if they threw it straight ahead. I s’pose you’ve looked there for it?”
“Yes, raked the place thoroughly.”
“All right. Now if they slung the thing over toward the right, where would it land?”
“On the smooth lawn.”
“And you didn’t find it there!”
“No. What are you doing? Stringing me?”
“Oh, no, sir; oh, no! Now, once again. If they chanced to fling said revolver far to the left, where would it land?”
“Why—in that big bed of ferns—if they threw it far enough.”
“Looked there?”
“No; I haven’t.”
“C’mon, let’s take a squint.”
Fibsy rose and lounged over toward the fern bed, Burdon following, almost certain he was being made game of.
“Now, watch me,” he said, and with a quick thrust of his arm down among the ferns, he drew forth a revolver, which he turned over to Burdon.
“Land o’ goodness!” exclaimed that worthy. “Howja know it was there?”
“Knew it must be—looked for it—saw it,” returned the boy, nonchalantly, and then, hearing a short, sharp whistle, he looked up at the house to see Fleming Stone regarding him from an upper window.
“Found the weapon, Fibs?” he inquired.
“Yes, Mr. Stone.”
“All right. Bring it up here, and ask Mr. Burdon to come along.”
Delighted at the summons, Burdon followed the boy’s flying feet and they went up to Stone’s rooms. A small and pleasant sitting-room had been given over to the detective, and he admitted his two visitors, then closed the door.
“Doing the spectacular, Terence?” Stone said, smiling a little.
“Just one grandstand play,” the boy confessed. As a matter of fact, he had located the pistol sometime earlier, but waited to make the discovery seem sensational.
“All right; let’s take a look at it.”
Without hesitation, Burdon pronounced the revolver Mr. Wheeler’s. It had no initials on it, but from Wheeler’s minute description, Burdon recognized it beyond reasonable doubt. One bullet had been fired from it, and the calibre corresponded to the shot that had killed Samuel Appleby.
“Oh, it’s the right gun, all right,” Burdon said, “but I never thought of looking over that way for it. Must have been thrown by a left-handed man.”
“Oh, not necessarily,” said Stone. “But it was thrown with a conscious desire to hide it, and not flung away in a careless or preoccupied moment.”
“And what do you deduce from that?” asked Burdon, quite prepared to hear the description of the murderer’s physical appearance and mental attainments.
“Nothing very definite,” Stone mused. “We might say it looked more like the act of a strong-willed man such as Mr. Wheeler, than of a frightened and nervously agitated woman.”
“If either of those two women did it,” Burdon offered, “she wasn’t nervous or agitated. They’re not that sort. They may go to pieces afterward, but whatever Mrs. Wheeler or Maida undertake to do, they put it over all right. I’ve known ’em for years, and I never knew either of them to show the white feather.”
“Well, it was not much of an indication, anyway,” Stone admitted, “but it does prove a steady nerve and a planning brain that would realize the advisability of flinging the weapon where it would not be probably sought. Now, as this is Mr. Wheeler’s revolver, there’s no use asking the three suspects anything about it. For each has declared he or she used it and flung it away. That in itself is odd—I mean that they should all tell the same story. It suggests not collusion so much as the idea that whoever did the shooting was seen by one or both of the others.”
“Then you believe it was one of the three Wheelers?” asked Burdon.
“I don’t say that, yet,” returned Stone. “But they must be reckoned with. I want to eliminate the innocent two and put the guilt on the third—if that is where it belongs.”
“And if not, which way are you looking?”
“Toward the fire. That most opportune fire in the garage seems to me indicative of a criminal who wanted to create a panic so he could carry out his murderous design with neatness and despatch.”
“And that lets out the women?”
“Not if, as you say, they’re of the daring and capable sort.”
“Oh, they are! If Maida Wheeler did this thing, she could stage the fire easily enough. Or Mrs. Wheeler could, either. They’re hummers when it comes to efficiency and actually doing things!”
“You surprise me. Mrs. Wheeler seems such a gentle, delicate personality.”
“Yep; till she’s roused. Then she’s full of tiger! Oh, I know Sara Wheeler. You ask my wife what Mrs. Wheeler can do!”
“Tell me a little more of this conditional pardon matter. Is it possible that for fifteen years Mr. Wheeler has never stepped over to the forbidden side of his own house?”
“Perfectly true. But it isn’t his house, it’s Mrs. Wheeler’s. Her folks are connected with the Applebys and it was the work of old Appleby that the property came to Sara with that tag attached, that she must live in Massachusetts. Also, Appleby pardoned Wheeler on condition that he never stepped foot into Massachusetts. And there they were. It was Sara Wheeler’s ingenuity and determination that planned the house on the state line, and she has seen to it that Dan Wheeler never broke parole. It’s second nature to him now, of course.”
“But I’m told that he did step over the night of the murder. That he went into the sitting-room of his wife—or maybe into the forbidden end of that long living-room—to see the fire. It would be a most natural thing for him to do.”
“Not natural, no, sir.” Burdon rubbed his brow thoughtfully. “Yet he might ’a’ done it. But one misstep like that ought to be overlooked, I think.”
“And would be by his friends—but suppose there’s an enemy at work. Suppose, just as a theory, that somebody is ready to take advantage of the peculiar situation, that seems to prove Dan Wheeler was either outside his prescribed territory—or he was the murderer. To my way of thinking, at present, that man’s alibi is his absence from the scene of the crime. And, if he was absent, he must have been over the line. I know this from talks I’ve had with the servants and the family and guests, and I’m pretty confident that Wheeler was either in the den or in the forbidden north part of the house at the moment of the murder.”
“Why don’t you know which it was?” asked Burdon, bluntly.
“Because,” said Stone, not resenting the question, “because I can’t place any dependence on the truth of the family’s statements. For three respectable, God-fearing citizens, they are most astonishingly willing, even eager, to perjure themselves. Of course, I know they do it for one another’s sake. They have a strange conscience that allows them to lie outright for the sake of a loved one. And, it may be, commit murder for the sake of a loved one! But all this I shall straighten out when I get further along. The case is so widespread, so full of ramifications and possible side issues, I have to go carefully at first, and not get entangled in false clues.”
“Got any clue, sir? Any real ones?”
“Meaning dropped handkerchiefs and broken cuff-links?” Stone chaffed him. “Well, there’s the pistol. That’s a material clue. But, no, I can’t produce anything else—at present. Well, Terence, what luck?”
Fibsy, who had slipped from the room at the very beginning of this interview, now returned.
“It’s puzzlin’—that’s what it is, puzzlin’,” he declared, throwing himself astride of a chair. “I’ve raked that old garage fore and aft, but I can’t track down the startings of that fire. You see, the place is stucco and all that, and besides the discipline of this whole layout is along the lines of p’ison neatness! Everybody that works at Sycamore Ridge has to be a very old maid for keeping things clean! So, there’s no chance for accumulated rubbish or old rags or spontaneous combustion or anything of the sort. Nextly, none of the three men who have any call to go into the garage ever smoke in there. That’s a Mede and Persian law. Gee, Mr. Wheeler is some efficient boss! Well, anyway, after the fire, though they tried every way to find out what started it, they couldn’t find a thing! There was no explanation but a brand dropped from the skies, or a stroke of lightning! And there was no storm on. It wouldn’t all be so sure, but the morning after, it seems, Mr. Allen and Mr. Keefe were doin’ some sleuthin’ on their own, and they couldn’t find out how the fire started. So, they put it up to the garage men, and they hunted, too. It seems nothing was burnt but some things in Mr. Appleby’s car, which, of course, lets out his chauffeur, who had no call to burn up his own duds. And a coat of his was burned and also a coat of Mr. Keefe’s.”
“What were those coats doing in an unused car?” asked Stone.
“Oh, they were extra motor coats, or raincoats, or something like that, and they always staid in the car.”
“Where, in the car?”
“I asked that,” Fibsy returned, “and they were hanging on the coat-rail. I thought there might have been matches in the pockets, but they say no. There never had been matches in those coat pockets, nor any matches in the Appleby car, for that matter.”
“Well, the fire is pretty well mixed up in the murder,” declared Stone. “Now it’s up to us to find out how.”
“Ex-cuse me, Mr. Stone,” and Burdon shook his head; “you’ll never get at it that way.”
“Ex-cuse me, Mr. Burdon,” Fibsy flared back, “Mr. Stonewillget at it that way, if he thinks that’s the way to look. You don’t know F. Stone yet——”
“Hush up, Fibs; Mr. Burdon will know if I succeed, and, perhaps he’s right as to the unimportance of the fire, after all.”
“You see,” Burdon went on, unabashed, “Mr. Keefe—now, he’s some smart in the detective line—he said, find your phantom bugler, and you’ve got your murderer! Now, what nonsense that is! As if a marauding villain would announce himself by playing on a bugle!”
“Yet there may be something in it,” demurred Stone. “It may well be that the dramatic mind that staged this whole mysterious affair is responsible for the bugle call, the fire, and the final crime.”
“In that case, it’s one of the women,” Burdon said. “They could do all that, either of them, if they wanted to; but Dan Wheeler, while he could kill a man on provocation—it would be an impulsive act—not a premeditated one. No, sir! Wheeler could see red, and go Berserk, but he couldn’t plan out a complicated affair like you’re turning this case into!”
“I’m not turning it into anything,” Stone laughed. “I’m taking it as it is presented to me, but I do hold that the phantom bugler and the opportune fire are theatrical elements.”
“A theatrical element, too, is the big sycamore,” and Burdon smiled. “Now, if that tree should take a notion to walk over into Massachusetts, it would help out some.”
“What’s that?” cried Fibsy. “What do you mean?”
“Well, the Wheelers have got a letter from Appleby, written while he was still governor, and it says that when the big sycamore goes into Massachusetts, Wheeler can go, too. But it can’t be done by a trick. I mean, they can’t transplant the thing, or chop it down and take the wood over. It’s got to go of its own accord.”
“Mere teasing,” said Stone.
“Yes, sir, just that. Appleby had a great streak of teasing. He used to tease everybody just for the fun of seeing them squirm. This whole Wheeler business was the outcome of Appleby’s distorted love of fun. And Wheeler took it so seriously that Appleby kept it up. I’ll warrant, if Wheeler had treated the whole thing as a joke, Appleby would have let up on him. But Dan Wheeler is a solemn old chap, and he saw no fun in the whole matter.”
“I don’t blame him,” commented Stone. “Won’t he get pardoned now?”
“No, sir, he won’t. Some folks think he will, but I know better. The present governor isn’t much for pardoning old sentences—he says it establishes precedent and all that. And the next governor is more than likely to say the same.”
“I hear young Mr. Appleby isn’t going to run.”
“No, sir, he ain’t. Though I daresay he will some other time. But this death of his father and the mystery and all, is no sort of help to a campaign. And, too, young Appleby hasn’t the necessary qualifications to conduct a campaign, however good he might be as governor after he got elected. No; Sam won’t run.”
“Who will?”
“Dunno, I’m sure. But there’ll be lots ready and eager for a try at it.”
“I suppose so. Well, Burdon, I’m going down now to ask some questions of the servants. You know they’re a mine of information usually.”
“Kin I go?” asked Fibsy.
“Not now, son. You stay here, or do what you like. But don’t say much and don’t antagonize anybody.”
“Not me, F. Stone!”
“Well, don’t shock anybody, then. Behave like a gentleman and a scholar.”
“Yessir,” Fibsy ducked a comical bow, and Burdon, understanding he was dismissed, went home.
To the dining-room Stone made his way, and asked a maid there if he might see the cook.
Greatly frightened, the waitress brought the cook to the dining-room.
But the newcomer, a typical, strong-armed, strong-minded individual, was not at all abashed.
“What is it you do be wantin’, sor?” she asked, civilly enough, but a trifle sullenly.
“Only a few answers to direct questions. Where were you when you first heard the alarm of the garage fire?”
“I was in me kitchen, cleanin’ up after dinner.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran out the kitchen door and, seein’ flames, I ran toward the garage.”
“Before you ran, you were at the rear of the house—I mean the south side, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sor, I was.”
“You passed along the south veranda?”
“Not along it,” the cook looked at him wonderingly—“but by the end of it, like.”
“And did you see any one on the veranda? Any one at all?”
The woman thought hard. “Well, I sh’d have said no—first off—but now you speak of it, I must say I do have a remimbrance of seein’ a figger—but sort of vague like.”
“You mean your memory of it is vague—you don’t mean a shadowy figure?”
“No, sor. I mean I can’t mind it rightly, now, for I was thinkin’ intirely of the fire, and so as I was runnin’ past the end of the verandy all I can say is, I just glimpsed like, a person standin’ there.”
“Standing?”
“Well, he might have been moving—I dunno.”
“Are you sure it was a man?”
“I’m not. I’m thinkin’ it was, but yet, I couldn’t speak it for sure.”
“Then you went on to the fire?”
“Yes, sor.”
“And thought no more about the person on the veranda?”
“No, sor. And it niver wud have entered me head again, savin’ your speakin’ of it now. Why—was it the—the man that——”
“Oh, probably not. But everything I can learn is of help in discovering the criminal and perhaps freeing your employers from suspicion.”
“And I wish that might be! To put it on the good man, now! And worse, upon the ladies—angels, both of them!”
“You are fond of the family, then?”
“I am that! I’ve worked here for eight years, and never a cross word from the missus or the master. As for Miss Maida—she’s my darlint.”
“They’re fortunate in having you here,” said Stone, kindly. “That’s all, now, cook, unless you can remember anything more of that person you saw.”
“Nothin’ more, sor. If I do, I’ll tell you.”
Thinking hard, Stone left her.
It was the most unusual case he had ever attempted. If he looked no further for the murderer than the Wheeler family, he still had enough to do in deciding which one of the three was guilty. But he yearned for another suspect. Not a foolish phantom that went around piping, or a perhaps imaginary prowler stalking on the piazza, but a real suspect with a sound, plausible motive.
Though, to be sure, the Wheelers had motive enough. To be condemned to an absurd restriction and then teased about it, was enough to make life gall and wormwood to a sensitive man like Wheeler.
And who could say what words had passed between them at that final interview? Perhaps Appleby had goaded him to the breaking point; perhaps Wheeler had stood it, but his wife, descending the stairs and hearing the men talk, had grown desperate at last; or, and Stone knew he thought this most plausible of all, perhaps Maida, in her window-seat, had stood as long as she could the aspersions and tauntings directed at her adored father, and had, with a reckless disregard of consequences, silenced the enemy forever.
Of young Allen, Stone had no slightest suspicion. To be sure, his interests were one with the Wheeler family, and moreover, he had hoped for a release from restrictions that would let the Wheelers go into Massachusetts and thereby make possible his home there with Maida.
For Maida’s vow that she would never go into the state if her father could not go, too, was, Allen knew, inviolable.
All this Stone mulled over, yet had no thought that Allen was the one he was seeking. Also, Curtis Keefe had testified that Allen was with him at the fire, during the time that included the moment of shooting.
Strolling out into the gardens, the detective made his way to the great tree, the big sycamore.
Here Fibsy joined him, and at Stone’s tacit nod of permission, the boy sat down beside his superior on the bench under the tree.
“What’s this about the tree going to Massachusetts?” Fibsy asked, his freckled face earnestly inquiring.
“One of old Appleby’s jokes,” Stone returned. “Doubtless made just after a reading of ‘Macbeth.’ You know, or if you don’t, you must read it up for yourself, there’s a scene there that hinges on Birnam Wood going to Dunsinane. I can’t take time to tell you about it, but quite evidently it pleased the old wag to tell Mr. Wheeler that he could go into his native state when this great tree went there.”
“Meaning not at all, I s’pose.”
“Of course. And any human intervention was not allowed. So though Birnam Woodwasbrought to Dunsinane, such a trick is not permissible in his case. However, that’s beside the point just now. Have you seen any of the servants?”
“Some. But I got nothing. They’re willing enough to talk, but they don’t know anything. They say I’d better tackle the ladies’ maid, a fair Rachel. So I’m going for her. But I bet I won’t strike pay-dirt.”
“You may. Skip along, now, for here comes Miss Maida, and she’s probably looking for me.”
Fibsy departed, and Maida, looking relieved to find Stone alone, came quickly toward him.
“You see, Mr. Stone,” she began, “you muststartstraight in this thing. And the only start possible is for you to be convinced that I killed Mr. Appleby.”
“But you must admit, Miss Wheeler, that I am nottooabsurd in thinking that though you say you did it, you are saying it to shield some one else—some one who is near and dear to you.”
“I know you think that—but it isn’t so. How can I convince you?”
“Only by circumstantial evidence. Let me question you a bit. Where did you get the revolver?”
“From my father’s desk drawer, where he always keeps it.”
“You are familiar with firearms?”
“My father taught me to shoot years ago. I’m not a crack shot—but that was not necessary.”
“You premeditated the deed?”
“For some time I have felt that I wanted to kill that man.”
“Your conscience?”
“Is very active. I deliberately went against its dictates for my father’s sake.”
“And you killed Mr. Appleby because he hounded your father in addition to the long deprivation he had imposed on him?”
“No, not that alone. Oh, I don’t want to tell you—but, if you won’t believe me otherwise, Mr. Stone, I will admit that I had a new motive——”
“A new one?”
“Yes, a secret that I learned only a day or so before—before Mr. Appleby’s death.”
“The secret was Appleby’s?”
“Yes; that is, he knew it. He told it to me. If any one else should know it, it would mean the utter ruin and desolation of the lives of my parents, compared to which this present condition of living is Paradise itself!”
“This is true, Miss Wheeler?”
“Absolutely true.Now, do you understand why I killed him?”
Fleming Stone was deeply interested in the Appleby case.
While his logical brain could see no possible way to look save toward one of the three Wheelers, yet his soul revolted at the thought that any one of them was the criminal.
Stone was well aware of the fact that the least seemingly guilty often proved to be a deep-dyed villain, yet he hesitated to think that Dan Wheeler had killed his old enemy, and he could not believe it was a woman’s work. He was impressed by Maida’s story, especially by the fact that a recent development had made her more strongly desirous to be rid of old Appleby. He wondered if it did not have something to do with young Appleby’s desire to marry her, and determined to persuade her to confide further in him regarding the secret she mentioned.
But first, he decided to interview Mrs. Wheeler. This could not be done offhand, so he waited a convenient season, and asked for a conference when he felt sure it would be granted.
Sara Wheeler received the detective in her sitting-room, and her manner was calm and collected as she asked him to make the interview as brief as possible.
“You are not well, Mrs. Wheeler?” Stone asked, courteously.
“I am not ill, Mr. Stone, but naturally these dreadful days have upset me, and the horror and suspense are still hanging over me. Can you not bring matters to a crisis? Anything would be better than present conditions!”
“If some member of your family would tell me the truth,” Stone said frankly, “it would help a great deal. You know, Mrs. Wheeler, when three people insist on being regarded as the criminal, it’s difficult to choose among them. Now, won’t you, at least, admit that you didn’t shoot Mr. Appleby?”
“But I did,” and the serene eyes looked at Stone calmly.
“Can you prove it—I mean, to my satisfaction? Tell me this: where did you get a pistol?”
“I used Mr. Wheeler’s revolver.”
“Where did you get it?”
“From the drawer in his desk, where he always keeps it.”
Stone sighed. Of course, both Maida and her mother knew where the revolver was kept, so this was no test of their veracity as to the crime.
“When did you take it from the drawer?”
Sara Wheeler hesitated for an instant and from that, Stone knew that she had to think before she spoke. Had she been telling the truth, he argued, she would have answered at once.
But immediately she spoke, though with a shade of hesitation.
“I took it earlier in the day—I had it up in my own room.”
“Yes; where did you conceal it there?”
“In—in a dresser drawer.”
“And, when you heard the alarm of fire, you ran downstairs in consequence—but you paused to get the revolver and take it with you!”
This sounded absurd, but Sara Wheeler could see no way out of it, so she assented.
“Feeling sure that you would find your husband and Mr. Appleby in such a desperate quarrel that you would be called upon to shoot?”
“I—I overheard the quarrel from upstairs,” she faltered, her eyes piteous now with a baffled despair.
“Then you went down because of the quarreling voices—not because of the fire-alarm?”
Unable to meet Stone’s inexorable gaze, Mrs. Wheeler’s eyes fell and she nervously responded: “Well, it was both.”
“Now, see here,” Stone said, kindly; “you want to do anything you can, don’t you, to help your husband and daughter?”
“Yes, of course!” and the wide-open eyes now looked at him hopefully.
“Then will you trust me far enough to believe that I think you will best help them by telling the truth?”
“Oh, I can’t!” and with a low moan the distracted woman hid her face in her hands.
“Please do; your attitude proves you are concealing important information. I am more than ever sure you are not the guilty one—and I am not at all sure that it was either of the other two.”
“Then who could it have been?” and Sara Wheeler looked amazed.
“That we don’t know. If I had a hint of any direction to look I’d be glad. But if you will shed what light you can, it may be of great help.”
“Even if it seems to incriminate my——”
“What can incriminate them more than their own confessions?”
“Their confessions contradict each other. They can’t both be guilty.”
“And you don’t know which one is?”
“N—no,” came the faltering reply.
“But that admission contradicts your own confession. Come now, Mrs. Wheeler, own up to me that you didn’t do it, and I’ll not tell any one else, unless it becomes necessary.”
“I will tell you, for I can’t bear this burden alone any longer! I did go downstairs because of the alarm of fire, Mr. Stone. Just before I came to the open door of the den, I heard a shot, and as I passed the door of the den, I saw Mr. Appleby, fallen slightly forward in his chair, my husband standing at a little distance looking at him, and Maida in the bay window, also staring at them both.”
“What did you do? Go in?”
“No; I was so bewildered, I scarcely knew which way to turn, and in my fear and horror I ran into my own sitting-room and fell on the couch there in sheer collapse.”
“You stayed there?”
“Until I heard voices in the den—the men came back from the fire and discovered the—the tragedy. At least, I think that’s the way it was. It’s all mixed up in my mind. Usually I’m very clear-headed and strong nerved, but that scene seemed to take away all my will-power—all my vitality.”
“I don’t wonder. What did you do or say?”
“I had a vague fear that my husband or daughter would be accused of the crime, and so, at once, I declared it was the work of the phantom bugler. You’ve heard about him?”
“Yes. You didn’t think it was he, though, did you?”
“I wanted to—yes, I think I did. You see, I don’t think the bugler was a phantom, but I do think he was a criminal. I mean, I think it was somebody who meant harm to my husband. I—well—I think maybe the shot was meant for Mr. Wheeler.”
Stone looked at her sharply, and said: “Please, Mrs. Wheeler, be honest with me, whatever you may pretend to others. Are you not springing that theory in a further attempt to direct suspicion away from Mr. Wheeler?”
She gave a gesture of helplessness. “I see I can hide nothing from you, Mr. Stone! You are right—but may there not be a chance that it is a true theory after all?”
“Possibly; if we can find any hint of the bugler’s identity. Mr. Keefe says, find the bugler and you’ve found the murderer.”
“I know he does, but Keefe is—as I am—very anxious to direct suspicion away from the Wheeler family. You see, Mr. Keefe is in love with my daughter——”
“As who isn’t? All the young men fall down before her charms!”
“It is so. Although she is engaged to Mr. Allen, both Mr. Keefe and Mr. Sam Appleby are hopeful of yet winning her regard. To me it is not surprising, for I think Maida the very flower of lovely girlhood, but I also think those men should recognize Jeffrey Allen’s rights and cease paying Maida such definite attentions.”
“It is hard to repress an ardent admirer,” Stone admitted, “and as you say, that is probably Keefe’s intent in insisting on the finding of the bugler. You do not, then, believe in your old legend?”
“I do and I don’t. My mind has a tendency to revere and love the old traditions of my family, but when it comes to real belief I can’t say I am willing to stand by them. Yet where else can we look for a criminal—other than my own people?”
“Please tell me just what you saw when you looked into the den immediately after you heard the shot. You must realize how important this testimony is.”
“I do,” was the solemn reply. “I saw, as I told you, both my husband and my daughter looking at Mr. Appleby as he sat in his chair. I did not know then that he was dead, but he must have been dead or dying. The doctors said the death was practically instantaneous.”
“And from their attitude or their facial expression could you assume either your husband or daughter to have been the guilty one?”
“I can only say they both looked stunned and horrified. Just as one would expect them to look on the occasion of witnessing a horrible tragedy.”
“Whether they were responsible for it or not?”
“Yes. But I’m not sure the attitude would have been different in the case of a criminal or a witness. I mean the fright and horror I saw on their faces would be the same if they had committed a crime or had seen it done.”
Stone considered this. “You may be right,” he said; “I daresay absolute horror would fill the soul in either case, and would produce much the same effect in appearance. Now, let us suppose for a moment, that one or other of the two did do the shooting—wait a moment!” as Mrs. Wheeler swayed uncertainly in her chair. “Don’t faint. I’m supposing this only in the interests of you and yours. Suppose, I say, that either Mr. Wheeler or Miss Wheeler had fired the weapon—as they have both confessed to doing—which would you assume, from their appearance, had done it?”
Controlling herself by a strong effort, Sara Wheeler answered steadily, “I could not say. Honestly, to my startled eyes they seemed equally horrified and stunned.”
“Of course they would. You see, Mrs. Wheeler, the fact that they both confess it, makes it look as if one of them did do it, and the other having witnessed the deed, takes over the blame to save the guilty one. This sounds harsh, but we have to face the facts. Then, if we can get more or different facts, so much the better.”
“You’re suggesting, then, that one of my people did do it, and the other saw it done?”
“I’m suggesting that that might be the truth, and so far as we can see now, is the most apparent solution. But I’m not saying it is the truth, nor shall I relax my efforts to find another answer to our problem. And I want to tell you that you have helped materially by withdrawing your own confession. Every step I can take toward the truth is helpful. You have lessened the suspects from three to two; now if I can eliminate another we will have but one; and if I can clear that one, we shall have to look elsewhere.”
“That is specious argument, Mr. Stone,” and Sara Wheeler fixed her large, sad eyes upon his face. “For, if you succeeded in elimination of one of the two, it may be you cannot eliminate the third—and then——”
“And then your loving perjuries will be useless. True, but I must do my duty—and that means my duty to you all. I may tell you that Mr. Appleby, who employed me, asked me to find a criminal outside of your family, whether the real one or not.”
“He put it that way!”
“He did; and while I do want to find the outside criminal, I can’t find him if he doesn’t exist.”
“Of course not. I daresay I shall regret what I’ve told you, but——”
“But you couldn’t help it, I know. Don’t worry, Mrs. Wheeler. If you’ve no great faith in me, try to have a hopeful trust, and I assure you I will not betray it.”
“Well, Mr. McGuire,” Stone said to his adoring satellite, a little later, “there’s one out.”
“Mother Wheeler?”
“Yes, you young scamp; how did you know?”
“Saw you hobnobbing with her—she being took with a sudden attack of the confidentials—and, anyhow, two of ’em—at least—has got to cave in. You can ferret out which of ’em is George Washingtons and which isn’t.”
“Well, here’s the way it seems to stand now. Mind, I only say seems to stand.”
“Yessir.”
“The father and daughter—both of whom confess to the shooting, were seen in the room immediately after the event. Now, they were on opposite sides of the room, the victim being about midway between them. Consequently, if one shot, the other was witness thereto. And, owing to the deep devotion obtaining between them, either father or daughter would confess to the crime to save the other.”
“Then,” Fibsy summed up, “Mr. Wheeler and Maida don’t suspect each other; one did it, and both know which one.”
“Well put. Now, which is which?”
“More likely the girl did the shooting. She’s awful impulsive, awful high strung and awful fond of her father. Say the old Appleby gentleman was beratin’ and oratin’ and iratin,’ against Friend Wheeler, and say he went a leetle too far for Miss Maida to stand, and say she had that new secret, or whatever it is that’s eatin’ her—well, it wouldn’t surprise me overly, if she up and shot the varmint.”
“Having held the pistol in readiness?”
“Not nec’ess’rily. She coulda sprung across the room, lifted the weapon from its customed place in the drawer, and fired, all in a fleetin’ instant o’ time. And she’s the girl to do it! That Maida, now, she could do anything! And she loves the old man enough to do anything. Touch and go—that’s what she is! Especially go!”
“Well, all right. Yet, maybe it was the other way. Maybe, Wheeler, at the end of his patience, and knowing the ‘secret,’ whatever it may be, flung away discretion and grabbed up his own pistol and fired.”
“Coulda been, F. Stone. Coulda been—easily. But—I lean to the Maida theory. Maida for mine, first, last, and all the time.”
“For an admirer of hers, and you’re not by yourself in that, you seem cheerfully willing to subscribe to her guilt.”
“Well, I ain’t! But I do want to get the truth as to the three Wheelers. And once I get it fastened on the lovely Maida, I’ll set to work to get it off again. But, I’ll know where I’m at.”
“And suppose we fasten it on the lovely Daniel?”
“That’s a serious proposition, F. Stone. For, if he did it, he did it. And if Maida did it—she didn’t do it. See?”
“Not very clearly; but never mind, you needn’t expound. It doesn’t interest me.”
Fibsy looked comically chagrined, as he often did when Stone scorned his ideas, but he said nothing except:
“Orders, sir?”
“Yes, Terence. Hunt up Rachel, the maid, and find out all she knows. Use your phenomenal powers of enchantment and make her come across.”
“’Tis the same as done, sir!” declared the boy, and he departed at once in search of Rachel.
He sauntered out of the north door and took a roundabout way to the kitchen quarters.
Finally he found the cook, and putting on his best and most endearing little boy effects, he appealed for something to eat.
“Not but what I’m well treated at the table,” he said, “but, you know what boys are.”
“I do that,” and the good-natured woman furnished him with liberal pieces of pie and cake.
“Great,” said Fibsy, eating the last crumb as he guilefully complimented her culinary skill, “and now I’ve got to find a person name o’ Rachel. Where might she be?”
“She might be ’most anywhere, but she isn’t anywhere,” was the cryptic reply.
“Why for?”
“Well, she’s plain disappeared, if you know what that means.”
“Vamoosed? Skipped? Faded? Slid? Oozed out?”
“Yes; all those. Anyway, she isn’t on the place.”
“Since when?”
“Why, I saw her last about two hours ago. Then when Mrs. Wheeler wanted her she wasn’t to be found.”
“And hasn’t sence ben sane?”