CHAPTER XIVBURNHAM PREFERS CHARGES
MRS. WARD, going about her work languidly, distracted Jones from his usual duties; he was not quite certain what was expected of him, to attend to the housekeeper’s whims or to valet Peter Burnham whose continued indisposition had developed a fondness for being waited on. The butler searched in vain for Mrs. Burnham to ask for orders, but the only person he located on the second floor was Evelyn Preston.
“Indeed, Miss Evelyn,” he protested, “what am I to do? Mrs. Burnham says Mr. Burnham is to stay abed, and Mr. Burnham says he wants his clothes, and Mrs. Ward comes along and says I am to pack Mr. Maynard’s bag.”
“Mr. Maynard’s bag!” Evelyn sat down in the hall chair. “What are you talking about, Jones?”
“I don’t rightly know, Miss; I’ve moved Mr. Maynard’s things from the room upstairs to the spare bedroom on this floor ’cause Mrs. Ward said it was too hot for him up there; that was yesterday, and now——” Jones wagged his head despondently.“A body can’t obey everybody,” he grumbled. “I’d best be accepting the Mission’s offer——”
“Now, Jones, don’t talk nonsense,” interrupted Evelyn firmly. “The person to be obeyed in this house is——”
“Who, Miss? That’s just what I want to know,” blurted out Jones as she hesitated.
“Why—why, Mother.” Evelyn regretted the words the moment she had spoken; whatever her private opinion of the extent or limitation of her step-father’s authority it should not have found expression before a servant. “Mother is the proper person for you to go to to settle that question,” she added in haste.
“Where can I find Mrs. Burnham?” asked Jones.
Evelyn paused to reflect; where had she last seen her mother?
“I think she went down into the basement,” she said uncertainly. “Or did she go to the garret?”
Jones concealed a smile behind a discreet cough. “Never mind, Miss Evelyn, I’ll keep going until I find her,” he said as he moved off.
“Wait, Jones,” and the butler halted. “Has Mr. Maynard gone out?”
“Yes, Miss, about an hour ago; anything else, Miss?”
“No, that is all, thank you,” and the servant went down stairs.
Left to herself Evelyn stared reflectively down the hall. Was Dan Maynard really leaving? He had said nothing to her at the breakfast table about going; surely he would keep his word and help—— The sound of an opening door made her look around just as Mrs. Ward stepped out of the library. At Evelyn’s call she turned with reluctance, or so it seemed to Evelyn, and approached her.
“Yes, Miss Evelyn,” she said, and stood waiting respectfully.
“Did Mr. Maynard mention at what hour he would return when he gave directions to have his bag packed?” asked Evelyn.
“No, Miss.” The housekeeper’s voice, monotonous in tone, always grated on Evelyn’s ear. She scanned the woman attentively; Mrs. Ward certainly had more lines in her face, and her hair, already gray, had gained an added whiteness in the past few days, which, contrasted with her sallow skin, made her look for the first time old in Evelyn’s eyes. Mrs. Ward moved restlessly under her continued staring, and her severe mouth tightened as she pressed her lips more firmly together.
“Is there anything else, Miss Evelyn?” she inquired finally.
“No, thank you,” but as the housekeeper turned to leave, Evelyn asked, “Why did you go in thelibrary, Mrs. Ward? The coroner has forbidden any one entering it.”
Not stopping her rapid walk Mrs. Ward looked back over her shoulder and answered none too civilly: “I went in to straighten the room. Your mother told me to; therefore the responsibility is hers.”
Without comment Evelyn watched the housekeeper’s tall spare form disappear toward the back stairs, then she moved thoughtfully over to the library door and turned the knob—only to find the door locked. Evelyn stared at the closed door in a brown study. She recalled distinctly seeing the housekeeper step into the hall and she had most certainly not stopped to lock the door behind her. The lock was like the others in use throughout the house, not a spring catch but one which had to be turned by a key.
On sudden impulse Evelyn stooped over to see if by chance a key was in the lock on the other side of the door. Before she secured a good look at the hole the door was jerked open and Evelyn precipitated into the arms of her step-father.
Peter Burnham regarded her in silent indignation as she recovered her balance and released her hold of his arm which she had instinctively clung to for support.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded and his voice betrayed his excitement.
“I was trying to see if the door was locked on the inside.” Evelyn was a trifle breathless as well as consumed with inward fury at having been caught in so ignominious a position by her step-father. “I had no idea you were in the room.”
“Oh, you hadn’t.” Burnham shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his dressing gown. “Well, if you must know, I came in to find out what you were doing in here. Don’t deny you were here,” as she started to speak. “I heard you from my bedroom and came in to investigate.”
“You did not hear me,” Evelyn retorted. “Mrs. Ward was in here.”
“Mrs. Ward!” Burnham turned and gazed uneasily about the room, and back at Evelyn. “What was she doing here?”
“She said she came in to straighten the room.” Evelyn paused in her contemplation of Burnham and also glanced about the room. Mrs. Ward had evidently arranged the shades and curtains so as to darken the library, and Evelyn, her eyes accustomed to the sun-lit hall, made out the familiar objects with some difficulty. “I hope Mrs. Ward did not dust,” she added as Burnham kept silent. “Detective Mitchell expressly stated we were not to dust in here.”
“And pray where have you seen Mitchell?” asked Burnham quickly.
“Here,” meeting his irate gaze calmly. “The detective spends a great deal of time in and about the house. Don’t you think you had better go back to bed?”
Burnham muttered something she did not catch. “Have you seen that jackass, Jones?” he asked in a louder key.
“Yes, he is looking for Mother.” Evelyn’s eyes were growing more used to the light and she saw that a drawer of the desk table was opened, and an over-turned scrap-basket lay on the floor near at hand. “Why did you lock the library door?”
“To prevent intrusions,” replied Burnham shortly. “The police have ordered this room closed; very well, it shall remain closed. Please notify Mrs. Ward to that effect, and also kindly tell Jones to bring me my clothes. I’ll——” a coughing spell interrupted him. “Tell Jones I’ll discharge him if he doesn’t,” he added as soon as he could speak. “Also ask him if he sent that telephone for Dr. Hayden.”
“I heard him do that,” volunteered Evelyn. “The doctor said he would be in after his morning office hours were over.”
“Oh, all right.” Burnham moved to the desk and picked up a pencil sharpener from among the brassornaments lying about. “Hurry, Evelyn, and send Jones to my room with my clothes.”
But Evelyn did not start at once on her errand; there was a feverish anxiety about Burnham which puzzled her. His explanation of his presence in the room was plausible; it was a natural impulse to look in the library if he heard any one moving about in the room closed by order of the coroner, and perfectly proper to lock the door to prevent others entering. But why had he not looked into the hall on first entering the library to see who had left the room? Why wait nearly five minutes, for that time at least had elapsed while she, Evelyn, had engaged the housekeeper in conversation, before jerking open the door? And why select the moment when she and not Mrs. Ward was standing before it? Come to think of it, she had rattled the knob in trying to open the door; of course, that would attract Burnham’s attention and cause him to find out who was trying to enter. Satisfied with the sudden solution which had occurred to her, Evelyn woke up to the fact that Burnham was thumping nervously on the door which he held invitingly open.
“Hurry, hurry,” he reiterated, and Evelyn sped out of the room.
Burnham waited a moment after closing the hall door and locking it securely, then taking out hisbunch of keys he slipped the key on its silver ring and dropped them back in his pocket. Next he hurried over to the desk and gathered some papers from the drawer, closed it, picked up the scrap-basket and placed it under the desk, and taking a pocket chess board from the table he returned to his bedroom through the communicating door, closing it carefully behind him. After pulling up the shades and pushing back the curtains and flooding the room with light, he clambered back into bed and commenced reading over the papers he still clutched in his hand. He was absorbed in working out a difficult chess problem on the pocket board when a rap on his hall door disturbed him.
“Come in, Jones,” he called, but instead of his butler, Dr. Hayden walked in. Burnham’s worried expression changed to one of relief. “I thought you would never come,” he exclaimed, pushing aside the chess diagrams lying on the counterpane. “Draw up a chair and let’s talk; don’t bother about that thermometer,” frowning. “My temperature is normal, I’ve taken it,” pointing to a silver encased instrument lying on the bed stand.
Hayden smiled as he sat down, having first, however, poured out a glass of water from a carafe on the stand and put his thermometer in the glass of water.
“Amateur diagnosticians make work for thephysicians,” he said good naturedly. “What are your symptoms to-day, Burnham?”
But Burnham did not smile. “I know what ails me,” he retorted doggedly, his eyes shifting about the room and then back at Hayden. “Worry has played the devil with my digestive organs. I’ll admit I had a beastly night, but I am all right now. I don’t like the baby’s food my wife insists on sending up to me, gruel and such stuff. I want a square meal.”
“We’ll see.” Hayden laid his fingers on Burnham’s wrist. “Pulse all right,” he said cheerily. “Stop worrying, Burnham, and give your nervous system a rest. I have told you before that you work yourself into these excitements.”
“Work myself up!” exclaimed Burnham bitterly. “Nothing of the sort. Do you think a man of my temperament can keep calm after finding a dead man in one of my rooms and being shot at two nights ago—and the murderer still at large? Why, man, my life’s in danger any hour, any moment until René La Montagne is put under restraint.”
Hayden held up a cautioning hand. “Hold on, Burnham, we do not know for certain that La Montagne shot at you on Thursday night; your charge is unsubstantiated.”
“I am morally certain of it,” declared Burnham, sitting bolt upright. “Not only that he tried to getme then, but that he killed the unknown man here on Monday night in mistake for me.”
“What!” Hayden regarded Burnham’s flushed countenance with keen attention. “Come, come, Burnham, don’t talk nonsense; be sensible.”
“You can think me cracked if you like.” Burnham’s jaw protruded obstinately. “Let me tell you something: La Montagne expected to find me here Monday night because I wrote him to meet me here.”
“You did!” Hayden stared in astonishment at his patient. “Why did you make an appointment with him if you did not like or trust the man?”
“Because I wanted him to understand, once and for all, that neither Mrs. Burnham nor I would permit Evelyn to marry him.” Burnham cleared his throat, his voice having grown husky. “Evelyn was expected in Washington and I wanted the Frenchman told before they met.”
“Well, did you see La Montagne Monday night?” asked Hayden.
“No, business in Philadelphia upset my plans.” Burnham’s eyes again shifted from his physician. “I did not reach Washington until Tuesday.”
“Oh!” Hayden stroked his chin reflectively. Burnham was certainly working himself into a state of nervous agitation, and the astute physician was wondering how much reliance to place uponhis statements. It was very obvious, however, that Burnham was bent on talking to some one, and Hayden decided it was better to thresh the subject out with him, rather than have him bottle up his spleen and nurse his wrongs, fancied or otherwise.
“Let us look at the situation sensibly and without excitement,” he said. “You believe La Montagne killed this unknown man in mistake for you?”
“Yes.”
Hayden’s next question was checked by the entrance of Evelyn whose over-bright eyes indicated suppressed excitement.
“Jones has gone,” she announced, hardly greeting Hayden as she walked over to the bed.
“Gone! Gone where?” Burnham half rose.
“I don’t know—no one knows.” Evelyn waved her hands. “He just left.”
“Walked out?”
“I suppose so,” glancing in surprise at Burnham who had almost shouted the question. He noted her expression and modified his tone. “What have you in your hand, Evelyn?”
For answer she laid a small package on the bed and Burnham half extended his hand and then drew it back.
“It’s been opened,” he exclaimed. “Who opened it?”
“I don’t know. I found the package on the halltable downstairs when I went to answer the front door.”
Burnham pulled off the outer covering of the package with such vigor that its contents fell in a shower over the bed.
“It’s only your chess problem diagrams from Europe,” exclaimed Evelyn, picking up one which fell at her feet. “Why make such a fuss about them?” observing Burnham’s growing wrath.
He changed the subject with abruptness. “Your mother has repeatedly told you not to go to the door, Evelyn, but to wait for one of the servants. It is not dignified for you to answer the door bell.”
“I only went because I did not wish to keep Detective Mitchell standing on the steps any longer,” she protested, coloring under his rebuke. “Mr. Mitchell said you had telephoned for him.”
“So I did. Why didn’t you say at once that he was here?” glaring at her. “Ask him to come in,” and as Evelyn made for the door he added in an aside to Hayden: “When I send important messages I telephone from the library.” He leaned over and spoke in a confidential whisper. “I know I’m watched; they can’t fool me. Come in, Mitchell,” he called more loudly and frowned as Evelyn, her curiosity piqued by the situation, walked determinedly in behind the detective; then his frown changed to a smile and he dropped his eyes so thatthe others might not see the sudden crafty malice which lit them.
“Draw up a chair, Evelyn,” he suggested politely, but disregarding his remark she walked over to the bed and leaned against the footboard. Detective Mitchell likewise remained standing by Hayden and waited for Burnham to address him.
“Found the murderer yet?” asked Burnham.
“No, sir.”
“Identified the dead man?”
“Not yet, sir.” Mitchell shifted his weight somewhat and rested one hand on the bed. “It is only a matter of hours now.”
“Ah, indeed. Well, I’ll assist in pushing the clock hands forward.” Burnham paused to sip some water from a glass on the bedstand; his throat was getting dry. When he addressed his companions he spoke with deliberate impressiveness. “The dead man was murdered in mistake for me,” he began. “And by the same man who on Thursday night again tried to kill me, that time by shooting.”
Mitchell bent eagerly forward. “Who is this man?”
“René La Montagne of France.”
“You lie!” Evelyn, her eyes blazing with wrath, shook the bed to emphasize her words. “You lie!”
“I don’t!” Burnham glared back at her andsmiled triumphantly. “I can prove my statement. Take down the charge, Mitchell.”
“One moment.” Hayden rose. “Let us talk this over a bit, Burnham. You say that the unidentified dead man was murdered in mistake for you by Captain La Montagne. Did Captain La Montagne know you by sight then?”
“Of course he did,” testily. “We met years ago in Paris.”
Hayden shook his head in bewilderment. “Then your theory that La Montagne mistook this unidentified dead man for you, Burnham, hardly is borne out by the medical evidence.”
“What d’ye mean?” The question shot from Burnham, down whose hot face perspiration was trickling.
“Why, simply that the man was killed by a dose of hydrocyanic acid.” Hayden spoke deliberately to make sure the excited man understood him. “If these two men were drinking together, as seems a natural supposition, La Montagne would have known his companion was not you and would not have administered the poison. He wasn’t shooting at you in the dark.”
“Not then, perhaps——” Evelyn, who had shot a grateful look at Hayden, whitened as she caught the venom in Burnham’s tone. “Listen to me, Mitchell; I want your full attention. La Montagnehas great reason to dislike me, to even fear me. Be quiet,” as Evelyn endeavored to speak. “I had an appointment to meet La Montagne here on Monday night.”
“You did!” Evelyn stared astounded at her step-father.
“But I was detained and could not keep the appointment,” went on Burnham. He moistened his dry lips before continuing. “I take back what I said about La Montagne mistaking the dead man for me. He undoubtedly brought the man here to assist in assassinating me and, finding I did not arrive, killed the man from a double motive—to get rid of a witness who might possibly betray him and to convict me of the crime.”
Evelyn stared at Burnham and then at her companions, her eyes half out of her head.
“You are mad! Utterly mad!” she gasped.
“So that is your cue, is it?” Burnham laughed heartily, immoderately, and Hayden edged nearer the bed, ready for any emergency. Mitchell was the first to speak.
“That’s a very neat theory,” he said, and his calm manner had a quieting effect upon Burnham. “You say you had an engagement to meet Captain La Montagne here, sir, but that you did not keep it. Then how did Captain La Montagne and this unidentifiedman—you claim, his companion—get inside your house?”
Burnham slipped his hand under the pillow and dragged out a sheet of note paper. “Here is a copy of my letter to Captain La Montagne making the appointment for Monday night. In it you will see that I said that my train might be late, and not wishing to keep him standing on the doorstep in what might be inclement weather, I enclosed my latch key.”
Evelyn gazed aghast at Burnham and then vaguely about the room; its familiar objects wavered and danced before her vision and with a pitiful cry she sank fainting into Detective Mitchell’s arms.