CHAPTER XVIICAMOUFLAGE
CORONER PENFIELD paused in his microscopic examination of the polished surface of Burnham’s desk and laying down his instrument, listened attentively. He could have sworn he had heard a faint rustle of skirts. Moving with noiseless speed over to the doorway he peered into the hall, himself screened from view by the portières, but the hall was empty. After remaining behind the portières for fully five minutes, he again crossed the library and sat down before the desk and renewed his occupation of ransacking the drawers. With the aid of a skeleton key he unlocked first one and then another, but only neat rows of filed bills and canceled checks rewarded his search and he sat back finally, gnawing his underlip. His eyes strayed about the room and he frowned meditatively at the clock as it chimed the hour; ten o’clock was early for an amateur performance to be over, but——
Penfield closed and locked each drawer and replaced every ornament on the desk where it hadoriginally stood, its place clearly indicated by the accumulation of dust which, by his order, the servants had been forbidden to remove. Rising, he took a thorough survey of the library. Mrs. Burnham had evidently seen that his instructions about keeping the room intact had been carried out; every piece of furniture was where he recalled seeing it after the discovery of the dead man sitting in the chair by the fireplace five or was it six—Penfield stopped to count—had five days elapsed since then? No arrests, no identification of the dead man in that time! Memory of a stinging editorial in a local newspaper on the subject of police inefficiency in handling the case made him wince. The editorial had hardened his resolve to make another examination of the Burnham residence, and upon hearing of the family’s contemplated absence at the theater that night he had decided to take the opportunity to once again go over the premises.
Crossing the room Penfield again examined the huge arm chair in which the dead body had been found. He shook his head despondently over the same blank results which had met his former investigation of the upholstery of the chair; there was no clue to be found in its spotless and unbroken surface, no niche where a paper might havebeen secreted, or spot where tell-tale finger marks had been left to aid in identifying the criminal.
With something very like an oath Penfield straightened up from his fruitless search and again transferred his attention to the library. Four questions confronted him: the identification of the dead man, how he had been carried into the library, from where, and by whom.
The coroner stared at each piece of furniture, at every section and corner of the large room, but no solution of the problem met his eager gaze in his orderly surroundings. His idea of being of aid to Detective Mitchell by a quiet examination of the room was a failure; no new viewpoint of the crime had presented itself.
Penfield turned restlessly about and faced the massive carved mantel which added much to the attractiveness of the library. The high brass andirons, their globe-shaped tops reaching almost to his chest, were badly in need of polishing, and the fire irons and screen were equally dingy. They were the only furnishings of the room which showed the result of closing the house during the summer months.
Penfield’s eyes traveled upward and along the high shelf of the mantel, which stood some distance above his head. The small bronze figures on either end of the shelf were handsome, but his eyes didnot linger on them and passed on to the next objects, candlesticks, and then were focused on the center ornament—the mantel clock.
The clock was evidently of French make, and the coroner admired the handsome gilt work which encased the glass globe inside of which were exposed the works of the clock, its dial, and the pendulum, which in that instance was obviously the loose base of the clock, and revolved slowly half around and back again as the seconds and minutes were ticked off. But it was the dial of the clock which had claimed the coroner’s wandering attention. Taking out his note book, he turned its pages hurriedly until he came to an entry under the date of Tuesday of that week: “Clock in library going at time of discovery of dead man, and time registered accurate to the minute with my watch.”
Penfield frowned at the clock. How had he come to overlook questioning Evelyn regarding the clock? Had she set it going on entering the library Tuesday morning? If she had not, it would effectually prove his theory that some one had occupied the house in the absence of the Burnhams. Penfield brightened; he had found something tangible to work on after all by refreshing his memory in his re-examination of the room.
Standing on tip-toe, for his medium height did not permit his reaching behind the clock, Penfieldfelt along the shelf for a key to the clock. Meeting with no success, he pulled forward a chair and mounting it, looked behind the clock, then under the bronze figures, and lastly under the candlesticks, but he could find no trace of a key. He next essayed to open the glass door of the clock, but the catch stuck and pull as he might he could not open it. A discreet cough behind him interrupted his efforts and he swung about with such speed that he almost lost his balance. Jones, the butler, laid a steadying hand on his chair.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said contritely. “I thought you heard me come in, sir.”
The coroner sprang down from the chair. “What is it you wish?” he demanded.
“The housekeeper said I was to report to you that I had returned, sir.”
“Returned? Returned from where?”
“From my day off, sir.” Jones, with careful exactness, replaced the chair from where the coroner had taken it. “Can I get you anything, sir; sandwiches——?”
“Not a thing, thanks.” The coroner’s brusque manner cut short the butler’s loquaciousness. “Where’s the key to this clock?” A jerk of his finger indicated the mantel shelf.
“I don’t know, sir.” Jones stepped forward and peered along the shelf, his height giving him thatadvantage over the coroner’s stocky figure. “Isn’t it alongside the clock?”
“It is not.”
“Then you’ll have to ask the master,” replied Jones, and his manner had lost some of its servility. “Or Mrs. Burnham,” he added as an after-thought. “The key is generally kept on the shelf. Mr. Burnham’s very fussy about all the clocks in the house and we have strict orders not to meddle with any of them.”
“I see.” Penfield thought a moment, then walked over and, closing the hall door, locked it. He balanced the key in his fingers before pocketing it. “Tell Mr. Burnham I will return the key to-morrow,” he said by way of explanation as he stopped long enough to pick up his hat from the chess table where he had placed it on first entering the library, and then walked over to the door opening into Burnham’s bedroom. He waited until Jones had followed him into the latter room, then turned and locked that door, pocketing its key without hesitancy.
Before again addressing the waiting servant Penfield took a careful survey of Burnham’s bedroom. Its simple furniture appealed to him, as well as the neat array of long tables which, with built-up sides, resembled open card index drawers.
“What’s all this?” he asked, approaching the tables.
“Mr. Burnham keeps his chess problems and records filed there,” explained Jones. “He receives problems, he calls them, from all over the world; and the time he spends fussing over them!” Jones rolled his eyes. “It’s enough to make him daffy. Here, don’t touch ’em, sir,” as the coroner removed several chess problem diagrams. “Mr. Burnham will raise——” He stopped as Penfield, after a cursory glance at the red and black markings in the small squares, dropped the diagrams back into place. “Mr. Burnham’s terrible passionate when he’s roused, sir,” he added apologetically. “I only thought to caution you, and no offense was meant.”
“And none taken, Jones,” answered Penfield. “So Mr. Burnham is of a passionate nature, is he?” Not waiting for the butler’s fervid “Yes,” he walked out of the bedroom, Jones just behind him. In the hall he stopped. “Which way is Mr. Maynard’s bedroom?”
“Right down the hall, sir, to your right,” and Jones led the way past the open door of Mrs. Burnham’s bedroom, which adjoined that of her husband, to the room he had indicated. Stepping inside he switched on the electric light and Coroner Penfield looked into the room for a moment only.
“Cozy quarters,” he remarked. “And who has the room across the way?”
“Miss Evelyn.” Jones stepped to one side to permit Penfield to return to the hall.
“And that room?” Penfield indicated a doorway at the back of the hall, a little to one side.
“That leads to Mrs. Burnham’s boudoir, sir, in the octagon wing of the house; leastways, that is what they call it,” explained Jones. His voice gained in impressiveness; he would have made his mark as a lecturer and the house was his hobby. “There’s a lot of surprises about this house, sir; it’s bigger than most folks think.”
“I have been over the house.” Coroner Penfield paused by the staircase. “I thought Mr. Maynard had a room on the third floor.”
“So he did, sir.” Jones led the way down the stairs. “But Mrs. Ward had his things moved into the spare bedroom downstairs, as Mrs. Burnham feared it was too hot for him on the third floor; not but what he might have been more comfortable with a suite of rooms all to himself upstairs,” added Jones, stopping respectfully by the entrance to the drawing room. “Will you go in and wait for Mr. Burnham? I heard he would be back early.”
Penfield considered a moment, then moved toward the front door.
“I will be around in the morning,” he said. “Please tell Miss Preston I desire to see her.”
“Certainly, sir.” Jones held wide the door and watched the coroner down the steps and saw him turn the corner before he again entered the house, closed the door and returned to his pantry. He was some minutes putting away plates, and then gathering the soiled dishcloths which the second man had left in an untidy heap on the floor, he turned off the light and went downstairs. The light in the lower hall had been left burning but dimly and in the almost complete darkness Jones stumbled against a heavy object and with difficulty kept his balance.
“Look out for my bag,” exclaimed a cold voice back of him.
“Schwein-hund!” The word slipped between the butler’s clenched teeth as he tenderly nursed his bruised shin, and with difficulty suppressed his desire to kick the bag down the hall as a small vent to his feelings. Suddenly he straightened up and, turning up the gas jet under which he stood, glared at Mrs. Ward, but her wooden expression gave no indication of having heard his ejaculation or observed his sudden badly concealed fury. Controlling himself by a supreme effort, he hid his feelings under his familiar suave manner.
“Why do you leave your bag in the way?” heasked, at the same time stooping to stand the suit case upright against the wall. “Shall I carry it upstairs for you?”
“No, put it down.” Mrs. Ward’s acerbity was unmistakable and Jones released his hold of the bag with alacrity, while silently marveling at its weight. “Go answer the bell, imbecile; do you not hear it ringing?”
Casting down the soiled dishcloths on top of the bag, Jones dashed by the housekeeper and ran upstairs, the front bell keeping up a ceaseless din as he hurried along; but in spite of his haste he paused long enough to scratch his bald head before opening the door.
“The bag had an ‘M’ on it,” he muttered. “It was no ‘W.’ I have a mind——” Another imperative summons on the bell sounded and he jerked open the door.
“Is Mr. Maynard in?” asked Marian Van Ness as she stepped across the threshold.
“Mr. M-M-Maynard,” stuttered Jones, his surprise at sight of Marian plainly evident. “No, miss, no ma’am.” Catching sight of her expression, his own changed to one of concern. “Are you ill, ma’am?”
“No.” Marian rubbed her cheeks, forgetting they were rouged, and unaware that it was the expression of her eyes which had alarmed the butler.“I have lost—I would like——” she pulled herself up short. “Has Miss Evelyn returned from the theater?”
“Not yet, ma’am.”
Marian moved over to the hall seat and sat down wearily. “Get a sheet of paper and a pencil, Jones,” she directed. “I want to leave a note for—for Mr. Maynard.”
“Surely, ma’am.” Jones fumbled about on the hall table and produced a much chewed pencil and a small piece of folded paper. “Just write your message here, ma’am, and I’ll give it to Mr. Maynard.”
Marian threw back her cloak and the butler inspected her striking costume of Jeanne d’Arc with admiring eyes. Forgetful of Jones’ presence, Marian stared at the blank paper, then wrote a few lines, and folded it into a cocked hat, added “Dan Maynard, Esq.,” in her distinctive writing and handed the note to Jones.
“I will be greatly obliged, Jones,” she said, stepping to the door, “if you will not mention my presence here to-night to any one, but give my note to Mr. Maynard.”
“Certainly, ma’am, I understand.” But the butler’s face was blank as he closed the door behind Marian and went slowly down stairs. He quickened his footsteps on hearing subdued voices in the hallleading to the basement front door, and reached there just in time to see the housekeeper hand her suit case to a taxi-cab driver.
“Here, wait!” he called, but instead of complying the taxi-driver slipped outside and Mrs. Ward shot the bolt into place before turning to face the irate butler.
“Hold your fuss!” she exclaimed authoritatively. “And mind your own business.”
“It is my business to know who comes here at night,” stormed Jones, giving vent to his bottled up anger at last. “Think you Mrs. Burnham likes to have hangers-on at her kitchen door?”
“And think you she likes to have such companions as you bring here?” Mrs. Ward’s blood was up. “The man whom the police want—the man you have kept here.”
Jones looked involuntarily over his shoulder. “Not so loud,” he cautioned. “Heinrich has joined the Mission; he seeks Divine guidance.”
“Then let him seek it elsewhere than in this house.” Mrs. Ward turned contemptuously away. “Pick up your clothes and be off.”
Jones gathered up the soiled dish towels in silent fury. As he tucked them under his arm some dark stains on one cloth caught his eye.
“Ah! Paint is it or ink?” He sniffed at thecloth, holding it close under his nose. “And why did you put fresh paint on your suit case?”
Instead of replying Mrs. Ward walked into the servants’ dining room and, sitting down, composedly picked up her knitting. Jones hesitated uncertainly in the hall, then, thrusting the note which Marian had given him inside a pocket, he followed Mrs. Ward into the room and stationed himself opposite her.
“Why did you alter the initial on the suit case?” he demanded, and waited in growing wrath for an answer. Receiving none, he again addressed the housekeeper. “Silence will not help you,” he announced. “I know—all.”
“Then why ask me questions?” inquired Mrs. Ward practically.
“Because I desire to know why that taxi-driver is here so often; in the back way; in the window, yonder,” pointing to the one opening on the walk which separated the Burnham residence from its next door neighbor, and which gave light and air to the rooms on that side of the house. “What does he here of so secretive a nature?”
Mrs. Ward laid down her knitting and met his angry gaze with one equally furious.
“What concern is it of yours?”
“That is my affair.”
“That is no answer.” Mrs. Ward shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.
“Then shall I say,” the butler leaned closer, “shall I say that that man’s jack-in-the-box presence in this house is for you a menace?”
Mrs. Ward’s laugh did not ring quite true.
“Since you must know——” She commenced, and paused to glance over her shoulder.
“Yes.” Jones came nearer. “What?”
“That man you call ‘jack-in-the-box’——”
“The taxi-driver,” prompted Jones. “Go on, woman!”
“That man——” the loud buzzing of the front door bell interrupted her. “Answer the bell.”
“Yes, yes, in a moment.” Jones came yet nearer. “The taxi-driver—who is he?”
“A detective—now go,” and Mrs. Ward resumed her knitting.