Cipher
Cipher
"I 'm afraid I shall prove to be a very indifferent assistant," she lamented, with a rueful little laugh. "I did n't deserve your commendation even for finding the cipher, because, while I was examining the box I was too intent on listening to you and that dreadful Burke creature to heed what I was doing. I felt the paper crackle, and then saw a corner of it through one of the rents in the faded blue satin."
"Never mind now. Maybe we shall understand it later. Some ciphers, you know, are to be read only in connection with something else; I think this is such a one. Let's put it away and take up something that I know you can help me with.
"That faded card"—I pointed to it lying upon the table, and noted that her face instantly grew grave—"why did you start so when you first looked at it—just as we heard Burke on the porch?"
She regarded me steadily.
"Mr. Swift, that is my aunt's handwriting—her name."
"Do you mean Mrs. Fluette?" I was in truth unprepared for this blunt announcement.
"Yes," she replied simply.
I believe the first effect of this disclosure was no more than an uneasy, apprehensive feeling; but in a flash the possibilities entailed began to occur to me, and I was left groping for words.
During the silence that followed I vainly tried to arrange my thoughts; the color slowly faded from Miss Cooper's face, and by and by she averted it from mine. I knew that our minds were working in parallel currents; I knew without looking at her that she was anxious and trembling.
At last I secured a grip upon myself, and I addressed her with decision.
"You believe I will do what is right, do you not?"
"Yes," she murmured, without looking up.
"Then I fear that our pact is to be short-lived, after all. This cursed tragedy is twining its tentacles nearer home than either of us dreamt of."
What, in the bitterness of my own reflections, was I allowing myself to say! I silently cursed myself for a blundering fool. The girl's gray face, the pinched look of it, frightened me. I started from my chair.
"Miss Cooper!"
For her head had dropped forward upon one curved arm, and she was shaken by a storm of tears.
After some minutes of miserable waiting on my part, the storm spent itself; she sat upright again, dried her eyes upon a bit of handkerchief, and spoke—quite calmly, but terribly in earnest.
"Mr. Swift, I know what your inference is—that Uncle Alfred must be in some way involved—but you don't know all the significance of the flash of understanding that so overwhelmed me. The idea that there could ever have been a love affair between Aunt Clara and Mr. Page is astounding enough"—she glanced at the card—"eighteen fifty-seven: why, she was only a mere slip of a girl then; much younger than I am now!"
It was patent that the revelation had startled and thrilled her; however, there was a more insistent, underlying trouble struggling for expression.
"But—Mr. Swift—do you think that this wheat deal has hurt Uncle Alfred financially?"
Poor child! One could not smile at the simplicity of such a question. I now thought I knew the foundation of this new fear that was gripping at her heart. But I didn't—not entirely; there was another surprise in store for me.
"It is very likely," I soberly made answer.
For all I knew to the contrary, his entire fortune might have been wiped out in the crash; he might have been beggared, stripped utterly; although, since he had not engineered the corner single-handed, he would be obliged to meet only his proportion of the total loss, whatever that might be. An outsider might only guess.
"It is not charitable to think or speak ill of the dead," she was saying, "but, oh! what a cruel, pitiless man Mr. Page was. Think of the long years of persecution Uncle Alfred has had to endure."
But I was regarding the matter from quite a different point of view. I was thinking rather of that broken wheat corner as the culminating stroke of an implacable enemy; of the probability that the rifled safe contained more love-tokens similar to the card—so many more, in fact, that the thief did not miss the one he had lost. I was thinking that the warfare between the two men had its inception much farther back in the past than anybody had ever imagined, and that it was no longer strange why Page had wrested the ruby from his rival. One must consider Fluette's passion for collecting rare gems to appreciate to the full the consummate malice of that coup.
This disturbed pondering, however, carried me round in a circle. If there had been love-tokens in the safe from Clara Cooper, Alfred Fluette was the only man living who would have any interest in getting them from Page. Again, if Page's hatred of Fluette was so intense that he would part with a fortune merely to deprive his rival of a coveted jewel, would he give this same jewel to a nephew for whom he entertained no liking, knowing that the jewel was destined for his enemy, simply upon that nephew's demand? Why, the bare grouping of the facts discredited Maillot's story; he was left in a worse plight than before.
I trust it is at least clear how heterogeneous were the elements of this crime.
And then—to start swinging round the circle once more—if Alfred Fluette was entirely blameless of Felix Page's murder, the tragedy could not have occurred at a more unfortunate time for him. Considering all the circumstances, it would be no great strain upon the credulity to picture Fluette, driven to desperation, ridding himself of the foe that had hounded him to ruin.
There was nothing else for me to do except follow all these avenues to the end; but whichever was the right one, that end must be bitter. I met the piteous look in Genevieve Cooper's eyes, and my heart sank.
I have often been told that when I want it to be my countenance is illegible; assuredly, at this moment it was not my desire that she should glimpse the tumult of thought and emotion to which I was a prey; but I have reasons, numberless as the sands of the sea, for knowing that it never was indecipherable to the bright blue eyes now searching it so earnestly.
All at once Miss Cooper was on her feet, the shadow of a great dread darkening her countenance; her voice trembled like the voice of a little child that is afraid. Her next words supplied more definite knowledge respecting her uncle's financial condition.
"I told you that both my parents died when I was an infant, Mr. Swift; they did not leave me entirely penniless. Uncle Alfred is the guardian of my estate—my personal guardian, too—and he—my God, I can't say it!"
"Perhaps," said I, gently, "I can surmise what you can't bring yourself to put into words: is it that he may be unable to strictly account for his trust?"
She winced at the question, and sank back into her chair.
"No—that's not it—not exactly," she said, With manifest effort. "But it is almost as bad.
"I was of age the fifth of last month—December—and on that day Uncle Alfred came to me in great distress. He told me that he was expecting any day—almost any hour—that a demand would be made upon him for an enormous sum of money; a demand that he would have to meet promptly or go down in utter ruin. He told me that his own affairs were in such shape that he could n't raise near the amount of the demand, and that he would be obliged to eke it out with my patrimony.
"I don't know whether or not the demand has ever been made; I don't know whether or not he has used any of my fortune—it isn't much; but he is welcome to every penny of it, for he has always been good and kind and generous. I have never asked him for an accounting, nor has he volunteered one. I simply don't know what to think. If he is in such desperate straits it is inevitable that his name will be linked with this crime. Poor Belle! Poor Aunt Clara!"
I could not dispute the reasonableness of her conclusion; her own mind had already linked the man with the crime. But what was the nature of the demand he was expecting? Her disclosure was mystifying. It was not probable that he had anticipated failure for his Board of Trade operations at such an early date.
"It was a foolish step, my coming here to see you," Miss Cooper complained heartbrokenly; "it places me in a bitterly cruel position. Knowing what I do now, if I remain silent I may be to blame for Belle suffering through Royal's unjust accusation; if I speak I will be treacherous to the very hearth that has fostered me."
I am glad that my chief's cold, unfeeling eye did not rest upon me at that moment. Her distress was mine. And I could not turn aside from the way which was opening so plainly before me.
Here, now, I had two motives for the murder: Fluette's mad desire for the ruby and, since the ashes of old romance had been so ruthlessly stirred, the most powerful of all human motives—jealousy.
It was possible, too, that a third person had been in the house last night; but if so, one of the two men had lied. The bit of candle found by me on the rear stairs had adhered to somebody's shoe while still plastic; if either Burke or Maillot had used these stairs at or about the time of the murder, then both had studiously kept the fact from me. It was possible that one of the two could have made fast the front door behind a fugitive, without the other's knowledge; Burke, for example, before he summoned Maillot.
But my chief concern now was for this sorely distressed girl. She had told but the bare truth; her position could scarcely be more cruel. Her eyes followed me with an expression of such tragic helplessness that I knew the issue was left for me to decide. I sprang up and commenced walking the floor. It was a long time before I could make up my mind just what to say, and during my troubled cogitation there was not an interruption, not a sound, from her.
By and by I paused, and stood looking down into the wistful face.
"Miss Cooper," I began, "it seems that you trust me, and, believe me, I 'm keenly sensible of the responsibility. I shall ask nothing of you which I think you can't freely perform; nothing that is not for the best interests of all concerned—all for whom you care, I mean."
She interrupted me.
"Sit down—here where you were before; it will not seem so much like your talking to me from a distance."
I obeyed. The chairs were quite close together.
"It seems to me," I went on, "that we should continue in the direction that has been pointed out for us; follow the light, however dim. There is a mystery here, and we are just now only skimming the surface of it; let's plunge below and see if we can't bring up at least a part of the truth.
"It is hard to believe that Alfred Fluette has been instrumental in Felix Page's death, even indirectly, but harder, more unjust to him, to pause without dissipating the cloud we have unexpectedly cast over him. The temptation to scrutinize his conduct and bearing is irresistible. Is it not better to lay bare all the facts, than to leave matters in the equivocal condition they now are?"
"You mean," she murmured brokenly, "you mean that—now—after what has happened between us—the duty of pressing forward at whatever cost is far more imperative than any other obligation that I may be under; that the innocent must not be sacrificed to shield the guilty."
That was precisely what I meant, but I lacked the courage to tell her.
"My dear Miss Cooper!" I said, in a voice as tremulous with emotion as her own.
"I trust you," she said simply.
I knew not what to say; her faith in me was manifestly so boundless that I was humbled to the earth. And yesterday we were ignorant of each other's very existence! Stressful circumstance can level the conventions with amazing swiftness.
"You are trembling," she whispered presently. "I am making what would be a commonplace matter very difficult for you."
"No—no!" I protested. "I feel for you; I can't tell you how much."
"Don't think of me," she again whispered, her look averted.
"I can think of nothing else," said I. My teeth suddenly clenched, and I bent toward her.
"I'll not allow this thing!" I undertoned in a savage outburst, recognizing the futility of my anger even as I spoke. "I shall not allow you to become further involved in this thing. Whatever the cost,Ishall shieldyou."
A pitiful smile stirred her lips.
"You have shown me my duty," she said, with gentle firmness; "you can't dissuade me now."
What do words avail at such a time? I loved this splendid girl, and my heart ached for her. I was almost swept from my balance by a sudden mad yearning to take her in my arms and try to comfort her.
Yes, I loved her; there is no use in holding back the confession; else where would be my great personal interest and concern in the death of Felix Page?
Yet I did not protest further; remonstrance would avail me nothing. Gently as she had spoken, it was driven home to me that she had expressed a determination which no power in heaven or on the earth below could change.
Another long silence followed, during which I as well as she was stirred by the most conflicting emotions. At last, though, I too began to see my way clear. Matters could not be helped any by either of us shirking the least part of a responsibility which had, within the last few minutes, become sweetly mutual. How anxious I was to spare her!
The silence was broken by Genevieve abruptly rising.
"I must really go," she announced, hurriedly. She was the least bit flurried, and there was a wonderful soft light in the handsome eyes that had not been there when she came. As she passed me she lightly brushed my shoulder with the gloved tips of one hand.
"I am no longer cast-down," I heard her murmur; "I know you will do—what is right."
I caught the fingers, detaining her.
"Don't go—not yet."
She lingered, expectant and more cheerful.
"I can't let you go like this"—I was steady enough now. She moved again to the chair she had just vacated, and I released the slim, soft fingers.
"There is one thing we haven't considered," I pursued, "and that is Mr. Alexander Burke. You say Mr. Fluette despises him: if he does, it is not without warrant, I 'd be willing to swear. What that fellow's game is I can't just at this time conceive, but I 'm confident that he 's playing one of some kind—a deep one, too. If he is, the potentialities are endless with such a cunning, unscrupulous rascal.
"I 'm satisfied, moreover, that he has lied to me. According to his statement, no one was in this house last night besides himself, Mr. Page, and Royal Maillot. Between him and Maillot I give the latter the preference, for, if the stories of both are true on any one point, it is that Burke was up and about before and during the time the murder was committed. Burke is consequently in the best position to know who was or was not in the house.
"Now I have a particular reason for thinking that this is one phase of the matter about which he has lied. Should it be that some one else was here—some one that we know nothing about—why, that would put an entirely different complexion upon the affair."
"Suppose," she propounded evenly, "that it was Uncle Alfred?"
I looked at her earnestly.
"You don't know that he was here," was my sober comment.
"No."
"Well, then, what's the use of borrowing trouble?"
"It's very silly—especially as I have trouble enough as it is."
With an impulsive movement, she thrust one little gloved hand into mine.
"I am still your assistant," she affirmed, striving hard to be gay, "if you will have me now. Together we will drive the trouble away."
I caught the other hand, and held the two of them together. She permitted the caress for a moment—for caress it was—then drew her hands away.
"Good-bye," she said faintly, without looking up.
But I got my hat and coat and walked down to the gate with her. Of a sudden, after we reached the walk, she moved a pace or two away from me and halted. Her pretty face dimpled in a smile, and there was a gleam of mischief in the blue eyes. One can't be always melancholy.
"I suppose I 'm a big goose," she said, "to have any faith in you; I 'm thinking it's a case of misplaced confidence."
She waved a hand, gathered her skirts closely about her slender figure and tripped away through the snow.
I could not realize any portion of the past when she had not been near and dear to me.
I returned to the library and heaped the fireplace with coal. For an hour after Genevieve's departure I was utterly unable to concentrate my mind upon any congeries of fact that might be of the least possible use in unravelling the badly tangled skein presented by Felix Page's death; I could see nothing but the fine blue eyes clouded with trouble, and the sweet face under the shadow of her gnawing anxiety.
I fished up the cipher, flattened it upon the library table, and strove manfully to hold my vagrant attention to the task of interpreting its secret message. My thoughts straightway wandered back to Genevieve again.
Now that I was alone, it was inevitable that I should sum up the results of our conference. I did not blink the truth; the facts were plain, not susceptible of argument.
No matter what the future might have in store for Genevieve and me, whether it was replete with delicious promise, or whether the useless iron gate marked the parting of our ways, her intrusion must ever remain a cherished memory. But it would have been better for her peace of mind not to have sought me out. If she had not, she would have remained ignorant of the circumstance that she possessed any knowledge hurtful to her uncle; if she had remained away, the accusation that he had come to harm through her could never reproach her in after years.
Her errand had been impelled by a conviction that I would appreciate her more intimate knowledge of her cousin's lover. She knew that she could lay before me no tangible testimony in his behalf, but hoped that I could be made to sympathize with her estimate of his character.
During her first visit to the house, with Belle, she had clearly recognized the seriousness of the young man's predicament, and that I would be governed only by the facts as I read them. Notwithstanding he was somewhat fiery and headstrong, if she could influence me to see that he was honest, sincere and straightforward, she felt hopeful that I would continue my investigation with a strong leaning in his favor.
Was ever a cipher so empty of all meaning!What addle-pate had conceived it? Why shouldhe want to perpetrate anything so idiotic?
By her simplicity and singleness of purpose, however, she had innocently drawn my attention to her uncle; then, in a measure, she had verified my awakened suspicions. While Maillot and Felix Page were in the library, engrossed in their own affairs, could Alfred Fluette have been in the house?
Highly improbable as such a contingency might appear, still it was by no means impossible. "Suppose," Genevieve had asked me, "that it was Uncle Alfred?" Never, unless she herself had some reason to doubt and mistrust, would she have propounded that question. Had he been absent from home until an unwontedly late hour last night? Was his manner in the morning of a nature to draw attention to himself, so that, in the light of later developments, it had provoked her suspicions? I had purposely refrained from asking her any questions touching upon this possibility.
In a flash the image of Genevieve Cooper swam out of my thoughts. My whole attention became glued to the cipher. At each end of the two rows of numerals and arrows was a peculiar crenellated design; it had struck me with a sudden sense of familiarity. Where had I ever seen anything similar or identical, that this odd symbol should penetrate into the midst of my absorption and force me unwittingly to try to recall the circumstance? Quite recently, I was sure—to-day—in this very house. My glance skirted the spacious library, darting from one object to another, but encountered nothing at all that in any way resembled it. Here was a subliminal reminder which my perception was dull to read.
Cipher
Cipher
Filled with the idea, I thrust the strip of parchment like paper back into my pocketbook, and started eagerly upon another tour of the entire establishment. I paused in one room after another, examined each article in turn, but ended not a whit wiser than when I began.
Yet my belief in the correctness of the veiled mental impulse remained unshaken. The design was a facsimile of some object in this house; something my eyes had rested upon, albeit without the existence at the time of any occasion to fix it upon my mind; but conjure my brain as I would, I could not recall where or when.
When Stodger returned, I determined at last, I would set him at work searching for the odd symbol, or whatever it might be. When I made this resolve I was standing beside the old walnut table at the head of Mr. Page's bed; with a forefinger I idly traced the design in the dust on the artificial leather cover, beside the impress made by the jewel-box.
My preoccupation was broken in upon by the arrival of the undertaker's men. It would not do—if the ruby was really beneath this roof—to grant any strangers unrestricted privileges of the house; at least not without keeping a heedful eye upon their movements. Alexander Burke, I shrewdly suspected, was equal to any subterfuge or ruse to obtain the jewel, and I did not mean to be caught napping.
No small responsibility is involved in safeguarding $500,000—the amount Maillot declared his uncle had paid for the ruby—particularly when the guardian himself does not know precisely where the treasure lies. It would not do to take any chances. Otherwise, if the amount had been materially less, or had been in a form not so easily disposed of about the person or by thrusting it into a convenient cranny, or, perhaps, even tossing it unseen through a window to a waiting confederate on the outside, my wisest course might have been to permit Burke, or whoever knew where the jewel was, to lead me to its hiding-place. But I must be vigilant, always alert; there would be little sleep for me until I had this extraordinary gem safe in my hands.
So I remained with the undertaker's men until they departed with the body.
As I turned to reënter the house Stodger's portly form hove into view. He dropped into one of the library's big easy-chairs.
"Whew!" he gasped. "I'm a peach of a shadow, ain't I? Nice work for one of my build. Say! That fellow Burke—Alexander Stilwell—he 's the—you know—most restless party I ever saw. If Fanshawe had n't relieved me when he did I 'd be worked down to about middle-weight by this time."
"Anything particular?" I inquired.
"Er—no. You know he came back here. Rest o' the time he spent dodging in and out of old Page's offices at the Drovers' National. Walk like a house afire for—m'm-m—maybe a block; next time maybe six blocks."
"Well?"
"Then he 'd—ah—he 'd turn round and walk back again."
"Not very interesting for you. But we know one thing for certain: he 's uneasy. I have a far lighter task for you, though, than following the erratic movements of Mr. Alexander Burke."
And then I recounted for his benefit all that I knew respecting the ruby, declared my belief that it lay somewhere in the house, and, finally, outlined my plans for the immediate future.
"We 'll divide the vigil between us, Stodger; you and I shall camp right here until that costly bauble comes to light. We 'll have to keep our eyes open and our wits about us, too; I wouldn't be surprised at some tricky attempt to recover it at any time—especially during darkness."
After showing him the cipher and requesting that he be observant to find the counterpart of the two peculiar designs, I left him in charge of the house. Next I arranged that our meals be brought to us, after which I returned to town and held a long conference with my chief. This proved to be eminently satisfactory, inasmuch as he left the Page affair entirely in my hands.
Although I hoped that some new development would require another interview with Miss Cooper, absolutely nothing transpired until the next morning. During the rest of Wednesday afternoon—perhaps I forgot to mention that the murder was committed at about midnight Tuesday—and until late Wednesday night, Stodger and I prosecuted a diligent and systematic search for the ruby, the original of the design on the cipher, and for anything else that might bear upon the crime, but found nothing to reward our efforts. At a late hour we knocked off and sought the library's easy-chairs. After a while Stodger asked me for the cipher. When I dropped off to sleep he was industriously digging away at it, with many gasps and inarticulate exclamations.
Concerning the cipher, it is perhaps well to mention that I applied it to the door of the hidden safe on the chance that the opposed arrows indicated the different movements of the dial; but I discovered the combination to be much simpler. In fact, there were not sufficient tumblers in the dial to allow for so complicated a combination at all.
There remained the possibility that the numerals belonged to some other safe, though I did not think so: those two odd crenellated figures could have nothing in common with any permutation-lock. I had seen them; they were tantalizingly familiar; but where? And what meaning did those two figure "10's" bear? Here was a riddle for Oedipus.
The next morning—Thursday—Dr. De Breen conducted the inquest in the library. I mention this hearing solely because of a number of circumstances which occurred during the proceedings—although unrelated to them—and which have a bearing upon the story. As for the testimony itself, it was about as satisfactory as in most instances where little respecting the crime is definitely known.
Stodger and I had the burden of additional watchfulness imposed upon us; a number of people would be brought upon the scene, and each of us had to be present at some time during the hearing without leaving the house unguarded for a second.
"Looky here, Swift," Dr. De Breen buttonholed me, grabbing at his glasses, "what's in this case, anyhow? Have you got the man? 'T isn't a woman, is it?" He cocked his head on one side, and favored me with a squinting regard.
"No, I have n't," I emphatically returned. "And what's more, I don't think you 're going to hit upon him to-day. It is n't a woman, either."
"Don't say! But what have you?"
I displayed the cipher, at which he scowled ferociously for a second.
"It's a combination," he announced decisively; "bet the cigars it's a combination—or direction of some sort."
"Sure thing. Perhaps, too, you 'll tell me where I can try it out."
Holding his glasses with one hand, he stared through them at the bit of paper.
"What are those fluted affairs at each end with figure '10's' in 'em?"
I shook my head. "You can search me. I thought you might tell me something; I can ask more questions about it myself right now than I can answer."
But I added my conviction that they were facsimiles of some detail of ornamentation I had seen in the house. I also told him where the cipher had been discovered—but not who had discovered it—and, in short, gave him a summary of the entire case. Before I was through he was grinning at me in a very superior and knowing way.
"Nice, bright sleuth, you," commented he, mockingly; "can't you see through a grindstone when there's a hole in it? Now looky here, Swift: old Page kept the replica in the box as a blind; this cryptogram tells where the real ruby is."
I shrugged my shoulders; the idea was by no means novel. But it did not make matters any clearer.
"It must have been the ruby which he showed Maillot," I insisted. "That young man may not be much of a gem expert, but I don't think any mere paste imitation of a ruby would have inspired him to such a flight of vivid description as he indulged in when he talked with me yesterday morning. Guess again."
He jammed his glasses down combatively astride his hawk-like nose, and squared his shoulders.
"I won't guess at all. Looky here: old Page switched 'em. That's what he did—switched 'em to show Maillot the real thing. Every time I converse with you, Swift, my theory about the equality of mind and matter receives a jolt: you have more brawn than brain, old sport."
Squinting at each newcomer, he bustled away before I had time to get back at him. I was rather touchy about my size; I could n't help being a giant, and the little ferret of a sawbones knew it. I had only one means of revenge. He was a great stickler for maintaining the dignity of his profession, and I always called him "Doc."
While De Breen was getting his jurors in line, I disposed the two patrolmen who had accompanied him—one in the hall, to direct those who had business here this morning straight to the library, and to allow nobody, under whatever pretext, to wander to any other part of the house; the second was stationed just inside the library door. Stodger was to remain up-stairs until called for, when I would relieve him during the brief period required for his testimony.
Burke and Maillot arrived while I was thus engaged, and before I had time to enter the library the front door opened to admit a party of three—Miss Cooper and Miss Fluette, who were accompanied by a handsome, dignified man with white hair and a closely trimmed beard which he wore parted in the middle and brushed straight back.
Instinctively I knew this man to be Alfred Fluette. And as soon would I have expected the attendance of the Caliph of Bagdad. I fell to watching him narrowly.
His features were not familiar to me, but certain details of his appearance were so striking that I could scarcely do otherwise than conclude that his bearing and countenance had quite recently undergone a marked change. He was a man, I imagined, who could hide his feelings with eminent success; yet, his upstanding figure, without being precisely bent, expressed an idea of drooping. The lines of his face gave it a haggard expression, while his eyes wore a furtive, hunted look at certain periods when he forgot to keep himself in hand. All these details taken together gave me food for sober reflection.
With the wax impression on the iron candlestick in mind, I bent my glance to his hands—to the right hand—but he wore gloves, and moreover, the long sleeves of his heavy overcoat came well down over his knuckles. A stirring of the library fire might persuade him to remove his wraps later on.
But something happened that banished everything else temporarily from my mind. The instant he stepped across the front door-sill his eyes sought the upper regions of the house—the balcony or the second story hall. The glance was feverishly eager. He looked away again quickly; but I could not help associating this brief episode with Burke's wistful look in the same direction the afternoon before.
I turned from Alfred Fluette to encounter a sober, questioning look from Genevieve. Her sweet face was pale and still troubled, and while nothing would have pleased me better than to hasten to her side, I was obliged—for the present only, I made mental qualification—to content myself with a smile and a reassuring nod. Her cousin Belle's demeanor was haughty, even supercilious, and she quite frankly ignored everybody excepting her father, her cousin, and Maillot.
Nothing occurred to retard the inquest, which I shall refer to only as is necessary to keep bound together the thread of my narrative.
After Stodger had given his brief testimony and returned to his post in the upper hall, I descended to the library and took a seat beside Dr. De Breen at one end of the big library table. As I did so I observed that Mr. Fluette was taking stock of me with a keen sidewise look. I recognized in his regard, surreptitious as it was, that quality which is accustomed to estimating and judging the characters of other men,—usually with unerring exactness, I fancied,—but I affected to appear unconscious of the fact that he was noticing me at all.
Alexander Burke was the second witness. His testimony did not vary from his already familiar story, and after the deputy-coroner had put all the interrogations he could think of, I began to prompt the energetic and shrewd examiner. Thenceforward the whilom secretary's examination proceeded as follows:
"Did Mr. Page have a revolver?"
"Yes. But it is now in my possession. More than a week ago I was engaged with Mr. Page here until a late hour. It was necessary for me to go to his office to procure some papers; it was past eleven, and he handed me his pistol. I forgot to return it."
So much for the pistol. The weapon was immaterial.
"In pursuance of your duties as Mr. Page's confidential clerk, Mr. Burke, you had occasion quite frequently to come here to the house, did you not?"
"Not frequently—sometimes."
"Were you familiar with his habits about the house?"
"I suppose so—yes."
"Which rooms did Mr. Page use the oftenest?"
"This one—and his bedroom. He scarcely ever entered any of the other rooms—seldom ascended the stairs."
"How would you account for the door-hinges on all three doors between the alcove and the bedroom having been freshly oiled?"
He did n't attempt to account for it; he merely evinced a mild surprise that such should have been the case. So, impatiently, I requested Dr. De Breen to dismiss him.
I was anxious to have over with the real ordeal of the day, for I knew that I thus correctly characterized to myself Maillot's session in the witness-chair, and, if I was not much mistaken, whatever was to follow after he was through with his remarkable story. Correct as I was in a part of my assumption, everybody present was far from being prepared for the startling denouement.
Maillot began his account of Tuesday night's happenings in a straightforward way, and told it at length as convincingly as such an improbable story could be told at all. His injured eye was even worse discolored than it had been the previous day, and I—watching closely the half-dozen honest citizens with whom lay his immediate fate—observed that they noticed and commented upon it among themselves.
And my anticipations presently began to be realized. As the young man made plain the purpose of his errand to Mr. Page, as he again went over all the extraordinary particulars of his uncle producing the ruby and promising to give it to him to convey to Mr. Fluette, I saw the jurors exchange questioning glances with one another; and then, as the enmity and ill feeling between the two men became more and more apparent, the six faces gradually came to assume expressions of open incredulity.
If the young lawyer remarked the effect of his testimony, which he could scarcely help doing, the circumstance seemed not to dismay him in the least. But the worst was yet to come: plainly, whatever doubts may have lingered in the minds of the jury during this stage of his examination, they were definitely dispelled when the witness frankly admitted that according to the best of his belief he was Felix Page's sole heir.
But to me Maillot's testimony was scarcely more than a running accompaniment to Alfred Fluette's strange behavior. It was impossible to interpret the seething conflict of thought and emotion which his haggard visage hid only indifferently; he stared at the young man, fascinated; but dominating every influence, gripping his very heart and biting like acid, I could discern the evidence of a horror which must inevitably drive him, sooner or later, to some violent outburst. It was manifestly more than human nature could endure.
Why?—I asked myself—why? Why should he be so profoundly stirred by the experience of one against whom he entertained such a strong antipathy? And so promptly that it took me by surprise, he supplied the potential answer to my unspoken question.
With a sudden movement, as if to sit longer inactive had become an unendurable torment, he stood upright, flung off his heavy overcoat and then whipped off his gloves.
On the middle finger of his right hand gleamed a broad band of gold!
I glanced at the sweet, concerned face of Genevieve Cooper. From the intentness with which she hung upon my every action and change of expression, I knew that she was trying to plumb the farther depths and learn the trend of the hidden currents of this drama, which was of such vital moment to her. I was glad that I could still offer her the encouragement of a smile.
My attention was directed to Maillot when one of the jurors began interrogating him.
"While Mr. Burke was absent," inquired the juror, "did you see the ruby?" His reference was to Burke's absence when he went to notify the police of the crime.
"I did not," was the reply. "I saw it no more after Mr. Page returned it to the jewel-case; I never even thought of it during the time of which you speak."
"Were you near the concealed safe?"
"Yes, sir—although at the time I did n't know that the open trap-door in the closet led to a safe. I saw that the small cavity was empty, and that was all I did observe about it."
"When did you first learn about the safe?"
"When Burke showed it to Mr. Swift yesterday morning."
"Why, then, in your testimony, did you say the deceased went to the safe after the ruby for the purpose of showing it to you?"
Maillot frowned and considered a moment.
"I did not make the assertion from knowledge of the act co-existent with the performance of the act itself," said Maillot at length, with a great show of deliberation. A man can't be utterly hardened who can quiz another at such a time. "I advanced it as the most likely theory by which to account for all of his actions during the time I waited here in the library, explaining the antecedent occurrence with knowledge subsequently acquired. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
The inquisitive juror stared a moment, then subsided. Dr. De Breen turned to me with a broad grin.
"That all?" he whispered.
I nodded. "Let the axe fall; I 'm curious to see what effect it will have."
Everybody's attention was abruptly diverted by Genevieve Cooper. Without a word to any one, she rose precipitately, glided noiselessly across the room to the alcove, and disappeared behind the curtains. Blank bewilderment brought me to my feet. What could have impelled her to this extraordinary move at such a critical stage? I started to follow her, but at that very instant the foreman started to announce the verdict.
Silence fell instantly. Maillot sat plucking aimlessly at the margin of a newspaper, the tiny fragments floating unheeded to the floor; while Miss Fluette, strikingly handsome with her transparent complexion, her red-brown hair, and clear hazel eyes, sat imperiously beside him, alone in her assurance as to the outcome.
The young man seemed to have forgotten her presence, so deep was his abstraction. In a little while he pushed the paper to one side, and began feeling idly in a pocket of his vest. His mood was distrait, and in a moment he produced something that glittered; something that made me start and rivet my attention upon him.
The something was a broad gold ring. He toyed with it for a moment, apparently wholly absorbed. Then he slipped it upon themiddle finger of his right hand!
The ring seemed to fit perfectly. He turned the hand over and back a number of times, inspecting the ornament from different angles of vision. After which, seemingly satisfied with his critical survey, he removed it from the finger and returned it to his pocket.
I studied the young man in perplexity. Here I had two rings on two different right hands: what was I to conclude from—
But events were moving swiftly, almost to the verge of confusion.
"We, the jury," read the foreman, with the tremulous, irresolute air of a man unaccustomed to forensic exercises, "find that Felix Page came to his death from a blow on the head, administered with some blunt instrument in the hands of—"
He got no further. At that instant a piercing feminine shriek rose in some remote part of the house. Coming as it did at such a juncture, when all present were hanging in suspense upon the words as they fell from the foreman's lips, it produced much the same effect as might have followed the explosion of a bomb in the company's midst. Miss Fluette gasped, and her face went as white as ashes. Maillot and Fluette were both instantly upon their feet, startled and tense.
The scream was a thrilling, prolonged note of horror. For one electric second my blood seemed to chill in my veins. The cry swelled in a quavering crescendo, lingered with the persistence of terror, then abruptly ceased, like the cutting off of a shrieking steam-jet.
For one awful moment everybody sat or stood as if petrified. If a bomb had exploded it might have passed unnoticed. Then, with a wild, unnerving recollection of Genevieve, I rushed to the door.
"Don't let a soul stir from this room!" I hoarsely shouted to Dr. De Breen.
In the next instant I had plunged into the hall, brushed aside the stupefied policeman there, and was taking the stairs four at a time.