CHAPTER XVIIITHE COUNTERFEIT BANK NOTE
WYNDHAM turned his roadster into the river road and, seeing no vehicle approaching along the straight stretch ahead of him, pressed the accelerator and his car raced homeward. He had found Alan Noyes, his only companion, morose to a degree of rudeness, and had forborne to address him after leaving the county court house. The hearing before Judge Ball had been a tedious affair, and the arranging of bail hampered by red tape, and it was long after the luncheon hour when Noyes was finally permitted to return to Dewdrop Inn with Wyndham.
They had traversed a third of the distance homeward along the river road when Noyes touched Wyndham and signed to him to stop. Somewhat surprised, Wyndham drew the car to one side and slowed down as Noyes bent forward and fumbled with the catch of the door.
“I’ll walk home from here,” he said, springing out of the car. He reddened as he turned back to hold out his hand to Wyndham. “You’ve been awfully good, old chap; I shan’t forget it, but just now I must be by myself”—he hesitated—“a walk will do me good; see you later.”
Wyndham wrung his hand. “You’ve been through a lot; just walk off steam, but don’t get lost in the woods.” He started the car forward, but before rounding the next curve he looked back and was surprised to see Noyes still standing where he had left him, looking from the bluff down the valley. The ground toward the river dipped abruptly at that point and Wyndham, stopping his car, rose in his seat and gazed in the direction Noyes was facing. His only reward was an excellent view of the river and the peaceful countryside, and he was about to drop back in his seat and proceed homeward when he saw Noyes turn, cross the road, and disappear up the hillside. He had been gone but a minute when Wyndham, looking again toward the river, was surprised to see a figure standing near the river bank. The man was too far away for Wyndham to see who hewas. The next instant he, too, had disappeared, and Wyndham, after a moment’s indecision, resumed his place behind the steering wheel and started for home; he was not Noyes’ keeper, and if the detectives wished to trail Noyes while he was out on bail, it was the Englishman’s responsibility and not his.
Reaching a crossroad Wyndham hesitated, then turning his car into the highway which skirted Thornedale, he continued along it until opposite the embankment where he had encountered Millicent Porter the night before and Beverly Thorne that morning. He stopped the car and, going over to the roadside, walked along it. The crushed and bedraggled condition of the creeping myrtle vines a little further on attracted his attention, and bending down he thrust his hand along until he touched the muzzle of the old cannon. Bending still farther downward he ran his hand inside the cannon and withdrew it a second later—empty.
“Could I have been wrong?” he muttered. “Millicent used to hide her toys and candy there—what more likely than that she thought of the old cannon if she wished to hide—” He broke off to stare moodily at the ground.Someone besides himself had examined the cannon since he had last been there; otherwise he would have noticed the torn vines that morning. And that man could have been none other than Beverly Thorne; he also knew of the cannon—had he, too, gone away empty-handed?
Wyndham was in no pleasant humor when he stopped at the garage and, turning over his car to the chauffeur, he went at once to the house. Instead of finding his aunt in the library as he had hoped, a stranger rose at his entrance and bowed politely.
“Is this Mr. Wyndham?”
“Yes.” Wyndham’s manner was not overly cordial; it was not customary to admit strangers to the library; they were usually shown into the reception-room. “Have you called to see my aunt, Mrs. Porter?”
“No, sir, I came to see you.” The stranger took out his card case. “I gave my card to the butler and he asked me to wait in here. I am Sam Anthony, of the United States Secret Service,” displaying his badge as he presented his card to Wyndham.
Wyndham barely glanced at the engraved pasteboard; his manner had thawed perceptibly.“Sit down, Mr. Anthony,” he said, dragging forward a chair. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. What can I do for you?”
“If you will answer a few questions.” Anthony resumed his seat. “Were you in Brentano’s bookstore yesterday afternoon?”
“I was.”
“You ordered some visiting-cards for Miss Vera Deane?”
“I did.” Wyndham’s surprise at the question was apparent.
“And paid for the cards with a ten-dollar Treasury bill?”
“Yes,” responded Wyndham, and his manner had grown alert. “What then?”
“The bill was an exceedingly dangerous counterfeit.”
“What!” Wyndham sat bolt upright. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Anthony took out his bill-folder and selected a gold bank note. “It’s a wonder,” he added, feeling it tenderly. “Never would have aroused suspicion at the bank but that Chief Connor warned them only today to be on the lookout for such a note.”
“Let me see it.” And Wyndham carriedthe bank bill to the light, turning his back squarely upon the Secret Service agent as he faced the window. When he looked up from examining the bill he started slightly at finding Anthony standing at his elbow.
“I would never have suspected the bill,” he said, handing it back. “It looks absolutely genuine.”
Anthony nodded. “It’s the work of a genius,” he admitted. “Who gave you the bill, Mr. Wyndham?”
“Let me see.” Wyndham half closed his eyes in thought, and under lowered lids observed the Secret Service agent. Anthony cloaked his ability under a sleepy manner and sleek appearance, and with him patience was more than a virtue; it was a profession. Dogged perseverance had won hard-earned promotion for him. He waited in silence for Wyndham to continue his remarks. “Why do you ask where I got the note?” the latter demanded, and his tone was crisp.
“Because we must trace it; and it will help materially if you can tell me where you procured the bill.”
“In that case”—Wyndham returned to his chair, but remained standing, one hand onthe back of it—“the bank note was given me by Miss Dorothy Deane.”
“The trained nurse?”
“No, her sister.” Wyndham looked closely at Anthony. “You know the Misses Deane?”
“Never had the pleasure of meeting them.” Anthony sank down in his seat. “Are they both here?”
“Yes.”
“Then can I see Miss Dorothy Deane?”
“I am afraid not, as she is with my cousin, Miss Porter, who is ill in bed.” Wyndham pushed his chair aside. “I will go and ask Miss Deane what she knows about the Treasury bill.”
“Good.”
“I’ll be back in a second.” Wyndham hastened to the door and, not waiting for a response, hurried upstairs and went at once to his aunt’s boudoir. To his delight he found Dorothy sitting there alone.
“Hugh!” Dorothy sprang to her feet. “You have news?” studying his face. “What is it, dear?”
“Nothing alarming,” taking her hand in a firm, reassuring clasp. “You recall giving me a ten-dollar bank bill to pay for the visiting-cardsI ordered at Brentano’s for Vera—”
“Yes, perfectly,” she said. “What of it?”
“Where did you get the money?”
“From Vera. Why?” Her surprise growing at the continued questioning.
Mrs. Porter’s doorknob rattled as a hand grasped it on the other side of the closed door, and Wyndham retreated into the hall.
“Tell you later,” he called, closing the door, but before doing so he caught the sound of Mrs. Porter’s voice raised in querulous questioning.
Wyndham went immediately to Craig Porter’s bedroom, and Vera answered his soft rap on the door. He signed to her to step into the hall, and she did so with evident reluctance.
“Dorothy wishes to know where the ten-dollar bank note came from which you gave her on Thursday,” he began stiffly. He both felt and resented Vera’s altered attitude toward him. “My question is not prompted by idle curiosity,” he explained before she could speak. “I will explain later; just now I am in a hurry.”
Vera eyed him distrustfully. “It is hardly a question of any importance; Millicentcashed a check for me in Washington the first of the week, Monday to be exact—”
“Where did she cash the check?”
“At her bank I suppose,” coldly. “My check was good—”
“Oh, yes; it was nothing of that kind,” in embarrassment. “I’ll tell you all about it bye and bye.” And he hastened downstairs, leaving Vera staring after him in bewilderment.
Wyndham found the Secret Service agent waiting for him at the foot of the staircase, his overcoat over his arm and hat in hand.
“I didn’t meet with much luck, Mr. Anthony,” he said. “The trail of the counterfeiter doubles back to Washington.”
“Ah! Miss Dorothy Deane had it given to her there?”
“No; her sister, Miss Vera Deane, gave her the bill.” Wyndham came down the remaining steps to assist Anthony on with his overcoat.
“Then Miss Vera Deane owned the bank note?” Anthony buttoned his coat with exactitude. “And where did Miss Vera Deane secure the note?”
“My cousin, Miss Millicent Porter, cashedMiss Deane’s check on Monday and gave her the money.”
Anthony regarded Wyndham in silence before putting another question. “Where did your cousin cash the check?”
“At her bank,” mentioning a well-known establishment. “So you see, you will have to commence your investigations in Washington.”
“It would seem so,” acknowledged Anthony, pausing on the portico as Wyndham stood in the front doorway. “I am greatly obliged for your courtesy. Good afternoon.” And hardly waiting to hear Wyndham’s hearty assurance of renewed assistance if he required aid, Anthony ran down the portico steps and walked toward the entrance of the grounds.
On reaching the lodge gates he signaled a waiting taxi, but as he was about to enter and be driven back to Washington, an idea occurred to him, and he curtly told the chauffeur to wait, then turning to the lodgekeeper’s wife inquired the way to Thornedale.
“The next property, sor; you enter beyond,” called the Irishwoman, pointing down the road to where a dilapidated gate hung onone hinge, and, nodding his thanks, Anthony hastened to Thornedale.
In spite of its obvious need of repair the Secret Service agent was impressed by the appearance of the old hunting lodge, with its rambling wings, upper gallery, and gabled roof. The old place was picturesque in its winter setting, and Anthony wondered at its air of emptiness. The blinds in only a few of the rooms were drawn up, and the house appeared deserted.
After repeated rings Anthony finally heard the chain being lowered, and the door opened several inches to permit Cato’s black face to appear in the crack.
“Dr. Thorne am out,” he volunteered, before Anthony could state his errand, and made as if to shut the door, but the Secret Service agent’s foot blocked his effort.
“I’ll wait for the doctor,” he said, holding out a visiting-card, which Cato took, and, putting on a pair of horn spectacles, regarded solemnly. The spectacles had been purchased from an itinerant merchant, but he could not read, with or without the glasses; they were only for the elegance which Cato thought went with his position in the family.
“Is yo’ come to see Marse Beverly professionally?” he asked, bringing out the last word with a flourish.
“Yes,” responded Anthony quickly, and Cato’s manner thawed.
“Step right in, suh,” he said, throwing wide the door. “Dar’s a gen’man awaitin’ a’ready. Ef yo’ jes’ make yo’self com’foble,” wheeling forward a large chair. “De doctor’ll be ’long d’reckly. Dar he is now,” as the portières were pulled back from the entrance to the dining-room. “No, it ain’t, nuther,” he added, catching a glimpse of the newcomer. “It’s Mister Mitchell. Is yo’ tired ob waitin’, suh?” as the detective walked into the living-room.
“Didn’t I hear Dr. Thorne arrive?” asked Mitchell, looking about, and at sight of Anthony he whistled in surprise. “You here? Anything wrong?”
“Feeling feverish,” returned Anthony, with a warning glance toward Cato, who was shuffling toward the staircase. “I called to see Dr. Thorne professionally.”
“Is that so?” Mitchell selected a chair near the fireplace. “I wasn’t aware that Dr. Thorne ever had office practice.”
The remark was overheard by Cato, and he turned with a reproving air to Mitchell.
“’Deed he do, an’ right smart patients come hyar from de city, too,” warming to his subject as he saw Mitchell’s skeptical air. “Dat ’er’ gen’man what was murdered at de Porters’ was hyar to consult wid him on Monday evenin’.”
“He was!” Mitchell nearly fell out of his chair, and recovering from his astonishment regarded the negro intently. “Why haven’t you spoken of it before?”
“’Cause I doan talk ’bout my marster’s affairs,” with offended dignity. “But I wants you to unnerstan’, Mr. Detective Man, dat my marster has de quality hyar same as always.”
“Sure, he does,” agreed Mitchell heartily. “But I’ve never seen an office in this house, and was not aware that Dr. Thorne kept regular office hours.”
“He do.” Cato looked somewhat mollified. “De office is out dat away,” jerking his thumb toward one of the wings. “I’ll get some kindlin’ wood an’ start de fire fo’ yo’ gen’men; it’s gettin’ colder.”
It was not until his hobbling footsteps hadentirely died away that Mitchell turned to the Secret Service agent.
“What brings you here, Anthony?” he questioned rapidly. “Surely not the need for medical advice; you look as sound as a dollar.”
Anthony grinned cheerfully. “I have a clean bill of health,” he said. “My ailment was a polite fiction invented for the benefit of the old negro. The Chief told me that you were on the Brainard murder case, and Headquarters said you were apt to be found here, so—I came.”
“What interest has the Chief in the Brainard murder?” demanded Mitchell, his professional jealousy aroused. “Why has he sent you here?”
A subdued bumping and labored breathing announced the approach of Cato, and Mitchell’s question remained unanswered as the old servant shuffled over to the fireplace and proceeded to build a fire on the bed of ashes. Anthony studied him for some little time in silence, then becoming aware that Cato, while pretending to be absorbed in his work, was covertly watching them, he turned and addressed Mitchell.
“I’ve heard that Dr. Thorne is a wonder at diagnosing a case—that he has marvelous instinct—”
Cato faced about in wrath, one hand poised in air clutched a piece of kindling. “What yo’ mean by sayin’ my marster’s got instinct?” he retorted. “He ain’t got no instinct—he’s got insense.”
Anthony retreated out of reach of the kindling wood. “Everyone tells me that Dr. Thorne is a fine physician,” he hastened to say. “I was complimenting him.”
“Was yo’?” Cato looked doubtful. “Then I ax yo’ pardon.” He placed the last piece of kindling on the hearth and throwing on several logs paused to see them catch, and again hobbled from the room. Mitchell waited a minute, then tiptoed to the door leading to the kitchen and made sure that Cato had really disappeared. Finally convinced that Cato was not within earshot, he turned to his companion.
“You haven’t answered my question. Why is the Secret Service interested in Bruce Brainard’s murder?”
“It isn’t interested in the murder, that I am aware of,” replied Anthony, moving hischair closer to Mitchell. “I was sent here to trace a counterfeit Treasury note presented in payment at Brentano’s store by Hugh Wyndham, and he tells me that the bank note was received by Miss Millicent Porter when cashing a check at her bank.”
“Humph! it must have been a marvelous counterfeit to get by a bank teller,” commented Mitchell. “So you had your trip here for nothing?”
“I am not so sure of that.” Anthony lowered his voice. “Wyndham told me that the bank note was first given him by Miss Dorothy Deane; she states that she received it from her sister, Vera Deane, and the latter declares that she got it from Miss Millicent Porter, who cashed her check in Washington on Monday morning.”
“Well, that’s straight enough,” exclaimed Mitchell impatiently. “Better question the bank officials, Anthony.”
“I will—later. Just now I want a little information about the Deane girls. Have you been in touch with them while investigating the Brainard murder? I ask,” he added slowly, “because a bag containing some counterfeit money was found on a street car. Inthe handbag was a visiting-card bearing Vera Deane’s name. Taking that in consideration with Wyndham’s statement that Miss Deane’s sister had given him the counterfeit bill—it looks fishy.”
Mitchell smiled skeptically. “Come, come, you don’t think those two former society girls made a counterfeit bill which would deceive a bank teller? Why, Anthony, it takes years to perfect a good counterfeit.”
“I know it,” grumbled Anthony. “I don’t suspect them of being the actual counterfeiters, but they may be affiliated with him, possibly innocently, and be putting money in circulation without being aware of the deception.”
“That’s an ingenious theory,” acknowledged Mitchell.
“Can you tell me who the Deane girls go with?” asked Anthony. “You’ve been watching the Porter house ever since the discovery of Brainard’s murder.”
“They haven’t been going with anyone in particular,” grumbled Mitchell, not altogether liking the other’s tone. “Vera Deane, the nurse, stays close indoors, and Dorothy Deane is mostly with Millicent Porter andHugh Wyndham. They haven’t seen any outsiders since I’ve been here. I’ve always thought, however, that Vera Deane knows more than she will admit about Brainard’s murder, but so far she has been too slick for me to catch her tripping.”
“When is Miss Deane off duty?”
Mitchell looked at his watch. “She should be at leisure now.”
“Excellent.” Anthony rose. “I’ll return and ask to see her. Come with me—?”
“I can’t.” Mitchell eyed his companion sharply; in spite of rivalry they had always been friends, and he badly wanted advice. “Did you hear Cato blurt out that Bruce Brainard was in this house on Monday evening? It must have been before he went to dine at the Porters’, because he never left that house alive.”
“Well, what if he did come here before going to the Porters’?” Anthony stared at the detective. “What’s there in that to get excited about?”
“Why hasn’t Thorne ever spoken of knowing Brainard? Why has he never alluded to Brainard’s visit on Monday?” Mitchell’s excitement, until then bottled up, rose to feverheat. “Thorne and I have discussed every phase of the murder, and he has never once said that he even knew Brainard by sight. I don’t understand such conduct, unless—”
“Go slow,” cautioned Anthony hastily. “Just because the doctor doesn’t take the world into his confidence about his numerous patients doesn’t mean that he is a murderer.”
“Wait,” urged Mitchell. “Brainard’s throat was cut with a razor which no one in the Porter household can identify—or will identify,” he supplemented. “The razor belonged to a set. This morning I found five razors, the mates to the one on Brainard’s bed, hidden in the muzzle of an old cannon on this place, and I am convinced Beverly Thorne knew they were in the cannon.”
“Did you see him place them there?”
“No, of course not,” reddening angrily. “I am waiting here to question Thorne. He hasn’t been here since early this morning, according to that old idiot, Cato. And it was this morning that I found Thorne and Wyndham sitting together near the cannon.” Mitchell came to a full stop as a new idea dawned upon him. “By gracious! I wonderif Wyndham knew Thorne had secreted the razors in the cannon?”
“Ask him,” suggested Anthony and rose impatiently. “I’ve got to be going. Don’t do too much guesswork, Mitchell; remember, you must find a motive for murder. What motive would Dr. Thorne have for killing Brace Brainard?”
The detective flushed. “What motive would Vera Deane have for planting counterfeit money?” he growled. “Don’t gotooslow, Anthony, or your counterfeiter will escape.”
“I’m not worrying.” Anthony smiled provokingly as he reached for his hat. “Chief Connor has sent a dozen men over here. He believes in following a hot trail, and I reckon we’ll get ‘Gentleman Charlie.’ See you shortly.” And he left Mitchell sitting by the fire.