CHAPTER XIXWHICH?
Trenholm’snoiseless pacing back and forth before Betty Carter’s bedroom door gave no evidence of the impatience consuming him. Miriam Ward had promised to join him the instant she was able to leave Betty. He had carried the unconscious girl to her room and then gone in search of Doctor Roberts, only to be told by Anna, who in her capacity of temporary maid was setting the dinner table, that Roberts and Alan Mason had gone for a motor ride in the former’s car earlier in the afternoon.
Trenholm’s restless walk drew him further and further from Betty’s room and when he finally paused he found he was standing in front of the closed door where Paul Abbott’s body had lain until the funeral. A hasty search in his pockets produced the key of the room and a second later he was inside it.
Trenholm took the pains to relock the door fromthe inside and to hang his handkerchief securely over the door knob, thereby obstructing Corbin’s view of the interior of the room. The caretaker had watched the sheriff from a respectful distance and, on seeing him enter and close the door, he had stolen down the hall and, first poking out the key in the lock with a slender steel instrument, he applied his eye to the keyhole, and saw nothing. With a grunt indicative of acute disappointment, Corbin slipped up to his living quarters in pursuit of his helpmate, Martha.
When Trenholm reappeared in the hall his face was set and stern. He paused, after locking the door again and pocketing the key, to wipe tiny drops of moisture from his forehead. Were his theories entirely wrong? No, he would stake his reputation that he was right, in spite of his last discovery.
“Mr. Trenholm!” Miriam touched him on the arm and aroused him from his abstraction, an abstraction so profound that he had never heard her approach. “Miss Carter has revived and is resting quietly. I think it is safe to leave her.”
“Good!” Trenholm’s relief was unmistakable and sincere. “Where are you going?”
“Downstairs to see if Doctor Roberts has returned,” she said, as he walked with her. She lookedup at him impulsively. “Miss Carter is suffering horribly—”
“I thought you said that she was improving,” halting abruptly on the landing of the staircase.
“I mean mental agony. Mr. Trenholm, can’t you help her?”
“Andyouask that?” The light in his eyes caused her to catch her breath sharply, then her heart raced on. “Come, you have never told me whom you think guilty of Paul’s murder?” He led the way into the sunparlor, where Anna had lighted two of the lamps before returning to the kitchen. Trenholm adjusted the Holland shades and curtains before the windows to his satisfaction, then sat down near Miriam.
She stared at him thoughtfully before speaking. “I learned only a few hours ago of the bloodstained sheet,” she said, “and that Corbin was so treacherous as to let you infer—”
He interrupted her hastily. “My inferences or deductions cleared you of any complicity in the crime,” his clear, strong voice and charming smile dispelled her agonizing suspense. “I never doubted you, Miss Ward,never. Although the exigencies of the case may have led me to imply otherwise, I never lost faith in your integrity—your honor—your splendid courage—”
“Ahem!”
Trenholm and Miriam, who had sat enthralled drinking in his words and the message which his eyes spoke more eloquently than human lips, both looked up to find Alexander Nash standing in the doorway contemplating them.
“I drove over to see you, Trenholm, but that rascally servant of yours refused to tell me where you were to be found,” explained Nash. “I then drove to Upper Marlboro and the constable finally ‘allowed’ you might be here. Such crass stupidity has cost me valuable time!” And Nash, the usually polished, suave clergyman as known in Washington and Toronto church circles, flung himself into a chair near Miriam, his face like a thundercloud.
“Why the excitement?” asked Trenholm, regarding him keenly.
“I have a confession to make.” Nash took out his large silk handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. “No, don’t go, Miss Ward—this interview holds as much interest for you as it does for the sheriff. It was in his presence that I told you that I failed to recall certain incidents of Monday night—”
“Whereby you lied,” pointed out Miriam coolly, and noted with relish Nash’s apoplectic complexion.
“You use a harsh term, Miss Ward,” he objected. “My statement was, strictly speaking, an evasion—Idid not deny that the incidents took place—simply that I did not recall them.”
“Oh, come to the point!” Trenholm’s tone was not complimentary, and Nash squirmed in his chair.
“Miss Carter and I were here on Monday night,” he began. “And I did perform the marriage service—uniting Paul and Betty in holy wedlock.”
Nash’s statement did not create the excitement he had anticipated and he looked from one to the other of his companions in intense surprise.
“Did you talk with Paul?” asked Trenholm quickly.
“No—not directly. Betty told him of my presence. I stood a little distance from the bed”—he cleared his throat. “Illness is upsetting to me. I—eh—have a peculiar dread of—eh—disease. Paul made the necessary responses—after he was—eh—duly prompted.”
“I see!” Trenholm was watching the agitated clergyman with disconcerting attention. “And what was your motive in denying your visit to Paul on Monday night?”
“Betty met me on my way here Tuesday afternoon and asked me not to tell of it”—Nash started up heatedly. “Why are you glaring at me in that offensive manner, Mr. Trenholm?”
“Is your first name Adam?” asked the sheriff dryly.
“No, Alexander,” with indignant emphasis. “I see no occasion for levity, Mr. Trenholm. My wife is devoted to her niece and so am I. I agreed to carry out Betty’s wishes, blindly it may be, and perhaps foolishly, but my motive was to protect her good name.”
“Explain your meaning.” Trenholm was thoroughly awake at last, and the clergyman could not complain of not creating a sensation.
“Betty received a special letter from Paul just before our departure from Toronto, telling of his illness and begging her to hurry to him,” went on Nash. “He feared that he might not recover and desired her to marry him. Betty was frightfully upset, and on our approach to Baltimore asked that we leave the train there and catch the last train out for Upper Marlboro. We did so, and on reaching there I secured a Buick touring car from the local livery—” Trenholm nodded his head.
“I know that,” he said. “Get on with your story.”
Nash favored him with a frown. “I drove Betty out here. We left the house, as Miss Ward knows, before Paul’s murder.” He paused to clear his throat again. “I helped Betty into the back seat, asthe curtains were up and she was more protected there, and, as the starter did not work, spent some few minutes cranking the car. Without addressing Betty again I headed the car for Washington and it was not until we were nearly at Anacostia that I discovered I was alone in the car.”
“What became of Miss Carter?” demanded Trenholm, as Nash came to a dramatic pause.
“I presume she left the car when I was stooping over cranking it,” explained Nash. “She had arranged the heavy laprobes so that they gave the appearance of some one seated there.” Nash waited for comment from his companions, but none forthcoming, he added, a trifle pettishly, “Betty’s disappearance was a great shock, but I continued on my way to Washington, wondering what I should do. Then came the news of Paul’s murder and I was positively staggered. And to be greeted before I reached Abbott’s Lodge with Betty’s piteous plea that I say nothing of our visit here on Monday night—why, it threw me entirely off my feet. For the sake of Betty—for the fair name of my wife’s family—to save them from scandal—I kept silent.”
“And what has caused you to break that silence?” questioned Trenholm.
“Only to you,” in alarm, “and to Miss Ward.I must ask you to pledge your word not to speak of it outside.”
“And why have you told us?”
“Because you are investigating Paul’s murder and I feel that you should know all the facts of the case.” Nash sighed. “I learned only this morning from a reliable source that Betty spent Monday night wandering about Abbott’s Lodge and in the garage. She walked to Upper Marlboro in time to catch the milk train for Washington.”
“Who told you this, Doctor Nash?” asked Trenholm sternly. “I insist upon an answer.”
“Well, perhaps you should know—” somewhat doubtfully. “Corbin.”
Trenholm sat back and contemplated the clergyman. “Corbin,” he repeated. “Thank you, Doctor Nash,” as the latter rose. “How is your wife?”
“Not so well.” Nash’s face clouded over. “I am going to stop and see her now,” he said, and with a polite bow to Miriam, he left them.
Trenholm waited until he was sure Nash had had time to reach the second floor before addressing Miriam.
“You don’t admire our reverend friend?” he asked, noting with secret amusement her wrathful expression.
“I think he is horrid!” she ejaculated. “So—soslimy. And Mrs. Nash is so straightforward and absolutely sincere.” Hastily she changed the subject. “How did that last code message read?”
Trenholm looked carefully around before answering her, to be sure they were alone, then approaching close to her side, whispered it in her ear.
“‘Watch thirteenth letter. Suicides grave.’”
“It sounds like gibberish,” she murmured. “Do you still think it refers to the thirteenth letter of the alphabet?”
“I do,” firmly. “And quite appropriately so,” he went on slowly, “when it commences such words as morphine, murder, madness—”
“And Mason,” she completed, quietly. “But, Mr. Trenholm, it’s a poor rule that doesn’t work both ways—”
“What do you mean?” as she paused.
“Counting the alphabet from A to M is thirteen,” she said. “But counting from M to A the thirteenth letter isA.” She looked at him queerly. “AlexanderNash.”
“Why not Alan Mason—countingbothways his initials make the number thirteen?” Trenholm stuffed his hands into his pockets and gazed at her tall, shapely figure, her clear, olive skin, and her great beautiful eyes, and was conscious of an accelerated pulse. He came a step closer. “I have learned thatAlan was on the troopship from Vladivostok with his cousin Paul.”
She started and stared at him aghast. “I can’t believe Mr. Mason had a hand in the murder,” she declared vehemently. “Call it instinct—or what you will—I believe absolutely that Mr. Abbott’s murder was planned and carried out by Boris Zybinn, and I cannot forget that Alexander Nash was Zybinn’s neighbor in Toronto. Tell me,” she came closer to his side, “has Doctor Nash a parish in Washington?”
“No—nor in Toronto.” Trenholm stroked his chin reflectively. “I understand that he was a man of considerable means before he married Representative Carter’s daughter—and that in spite of the difference in their ages, it was a love match, pure and simple. I think Paul told me that Doctor Nash had retired from the ministry.”
“O-o-h!” Miriam’s exclamation was long-drawn out and Trenholm stared. She gave him no opportunity to question her further. “To go back to the coded message,” she began, “have you thought the words ‘suicides grave’ have any connection with the Mason plot out yonder and the poor suicide—that makes the thirteenth grave—as you pointed out the other day, in that neglected family cemetery?”
Trenholm looked at her keenly. “Time will show,” he replied, and wondered at her disappointment. “Why do you ask?”
“I walked by the graveyard just now,” she said hurriedly, “and was amazed to see—”
“Excuse me, Miss—Ma’am”—Martha’s complaining voice caused Miriam to jump—startled by the woman’s proximity. “Dinner will be ready in a minute. I’ve just telled the folks upstairs, and thought mebbe you’d like to know. There’s a couple o’ boys outside inquirin’ for ye, Sheriff,” and, her message delivered, Martha took herself off.
Trenholm caught up with her before she reached the kitchen, and drew her to one side.
“Martha!” His low stern voice sent a shiver down the woman’s back, and the pressure of his hand on her arm tightened. “When did this letter reach Mr. Paul?” and he held before her the thirteenth letter. “No lies, now. I want the truth.”
“Yes, sir,” Martha’s quavering tones did not belie her feelings. “Please, sir, that there letter with them queer stamps come the morning Mr. Paul was killed, sir.”
“No go, Martha,” Trenholm shook her slightly. “The postmark shows this letter should have reached Upper Marlboro last week.”
“I ain’t sayin’ it didn’t,” she whined. “But by mistake it was put in Anna’s father’s box by the carrier; an’ havin’ sickness in the family, Anna only brought it up on Monday mornin’. I took it from her, sir, and went right up to the room where Mr. Paul was talkin’ to Mr. Alan—an’ laid it on the table.”
“Mr. Alan!” Trenholm strove to keep his voice lowered. “Was he here then?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Paul sent for him,” she looked up craftily. “He stayed ’round most of the day until ’bout time the doctor was to come, and then he cleared out.” She raised herself on tiptoe and whispered as he bent down to hear her better. “Corbin wa’n’t here then. He’d kill me if he knew I was keepin’ anythin’ from him. But Mr. Alan,” her voice held unexpected, unmistakable pathos, “years back, he beat Corbin for mishandlin’ me, and I ain’t never forgot how good he was.”
“Hush!” Trenholm took out his handkerchief and handed it to her. “Dry your eyes, Martha; and say nothing about Mr. Alan or this letter”—returning it to his pocket. “Remember I trust you.”
Martha drew a long, long breath. Trenholm was treating her like a human being. Gratitude, mingled with a return of self-respect, caused her to raise his hand to her lips, then, in frantic bashfulness, sheslipped back into the dining room, upsetting Anna in her hurried entrance.
Trenholm paused in deep thought, then, going through the side door, joined the three deputies who were anxiously awaiting him. His concise directions were listened to with the respect which Trenholm inspired among those who worked with and for him.
“You understand,” he said finally, and the men nodded as they stood grouped about him. “Riley, go to the telegraph office and await the answers to the messages I have sent and bring them to me. Do not permit them to telephone any message to me; there is too much danger of ‘listening in.’ Now, be off,” and Trenholm again entered Abbott’s Lodge, but by the front door.
Trenholm’s entrance went unnoticed by Doctor Roberts and Alan Mason, who were chatting with Miriam, while Alexander Nash stood moodily contemplating the blazing logs on the hearth at the further end of the living room, deaf alike to his companions and Anna’s announcement that dinner was served.
With old-fashioned courtesy, Roberts offered his arm to Miriam, then paused abruptly as footsteps on the staircase caused him to glance upward.
“God bless my soul!” he ejaculated in complete surprise.
Coming down the staircase, with the assistance of a flurried Somers, was Mrs. Nash. She had donned a pretty negligée, and the excitement and her exertions combined had brought the color to her face. Miriam hastened to Somers’ assistance and Roberts was immediately behind her.
“This is most imprudent, Mrs. Nash!” he exclaimed sternly. “In your condition—”
“Poof!” Mrs. Nash snapped her fingers. “I am getting on famously. Don’t be pessimistic, Doctor; instead, you should congratulate me upon my recovery. Thank you, my dear,” as Miriam helped her toward the dining room. “Come here, Alexander, and give me your arm.”
At sound of her voice, the clergyman wheeled around and stepped backward with such suddenness that he walked on the fire tongs and fender.
“Dora—here! Have you taken leave of your senses?” he demanded.
“I seem the only one to have retained my senses,” she retorted tartly. “Miss Ward, you were always assuring me I was not very ill, but judging from Doctor Roberts’ conduct and my husband’s, they must have thought me at the point of death.”
Nash collected his scattered wits and came forward. “I suppose you will have your way, though the skies fall,” he said resignedly. “But I shouldhave thought, my dear, that poor Zybinn’s sudden death through imprudent neglect of his health would have warned you to be careful.”
What rejoinder Mrs. Nash made was lost by Trenholm, who had stood out of sight behind the grandfather clock watching the scene. He waited until, judging from the sounds that came from the other room, they were seated around the dinner table, and then, taking care to make no noise, he ran lightly up the staircase and darted into Mrs. Nash’s bedroom.
Before going to her supper, Somers had aired the room and remade the bed, and Trenholm’s electric torch showed everything in order. First convincing himself that he was the only person in the bedroom, he went over to the wall and taking from his pocket the pen and ink drawing which he had carried away almost under Mrs. Nash’s nose, he hung it back in its place.
Trenholm laid down his torch on a convenient chair and drew out the thirteenth letter. He had inserted a little paste under the flap before leaving his bungalow, and to all intents and purposes the envelope looked as if it never had been opened. Holding it in his hand, he scanned the bedroom eagerly and spied a dustpan and brush which Somers had carelessly forgotten and left standing by thebureau. Trenholm slipped over to it and laid the envelope on the small pile of trash in the pan. When he had arranged it to his liking, the envelope looked as if it had been brushed up with the rest of the trash, but the Canadian stamps were plainly in view.
Trenholm stood up and, taking his torch with him, tiptoed to the hall door which he had left open as he had found it. A glance outside showed that the hall was empty. Looking about the bedroom, Trenholm noticed a screen which Somers had brought into the bedroom and stood between Mrs. Nash and an open window. It would make an excellent hiding place. Like a flash he was behind it. From where he crouched, he had an excellent view of the open door and the entire bedroom. Trenholm drew a long breath—the stage was set, and he had staked all on the fall of the dice!
Half an hour passed and he was commencing to worry when a light footfall came down the hall and he heard Betty Carter exclaim at sight of the darkened room.
“Somers!” she called, very softly. Getting no reply, she peered into the room and then very cautiously came inside it. A startled exclamation, quickly suppressed, escaped her at sight of the empty bed, and she drew back and glanced hastily over her shoulder. Gathering courage from the continuedstillness, she went over to the bureau and fumbled in one of the drawers. Something fell from her hand—from Trenholm’s position he could not see what, and he dared not move—and she struck a match. Shielding it in her hand, she stooped over. She remained so long in that position that Trenholm grew alarmed; then, with a swiftness and stealth which left him breathless, she was gone.
Had Betty taken the thirteenth letter? Trenholm was on edge, but, before he dared venture out, another figure stood in the doorway, and by the light from the hall lamp, he recognized Miriam. Without hesitation she went at once to the bureau and opening the second drawer took out one of Mrs. Nash’s scarfs. Would she see the envelope and, thinking it had accidentally fallen in the dustpan, pick it up? Or was it not there for her to pick up? Trenholm heaved a sigh of thankfulness when Miriam turned and went into the hall.
A stealthy step inside the bedroom a few seconds later caused Trenholm again to draw back into the shelter of the screen in time to miss being seen by Corbin. The caretaker had advanced only a few paces when a hand was laid on his shoulder and he was jerked back.
“Sacré Dieu!What do you in my mistress’ bedroom,cochon?” hissed Pierre in his ear. Whatanswer the terrified man would have made was checked by Alexander Nash’s voice in the hall.
“Pierre, bring the car around!” Nash failed to see the two men, chauffeur and caretaker, steal out of his wife’s doorway, for he turned at the moment to address Alan Mason—only to find that the young man had disappeared. Nash hesitated for a fraction of a second, then tiptoed down the hall.
Trenholm’s sensitive ears caught the creak of a floor board, and the faint “seep—seep” of something being dragged across the floor. A flood of light from an electric torch half blinded him, accustomed to the almost total darkness of the room, and he rubbed his eyes to clear his vision, just as the light was focused full upon the dustpan. The thirteenth letter stood out in bold relief. The light was dimmed instantly and again Trenholm caught the sound of something creeping across the floor.
The light flared up again with unexpected swiftness and Trenholm saw a shapeless figure, its head and shoulders enveloped in some black garment, squatting over the dustpan. The torch lay at rest by it, and Trenholm had a glimpse of long, slender fingers holding the letter as he crept from behind the screen and as noiseless as the shadows about him, reached the kneeling figure. The stamped envelopewas held in one hand and in the other was a perforation gauge—
With lightning swiftness Trenholm snapped the handcuffs on the two upraised wrists. With a sweep of his arm, he drew back the black, shroudlike garment, as he cried:
“In the name of the law I arrest you for the murder of Paul Abbott”—Trenholm’s voice died away at sight of the distorted, ghastly face confronting him, then rose in horror—“Doctor Roberts.”