We left no room, no cupboard unopened. No hall or loft unsearched. We looked in, under and behind every piece of furniture, and came, at last, to the unescapable conclusion that wherever Vicky Van might be, she was not in her own house.
Downstairs we went, and found Coroner Fenn and Inspector Mason in the hall. They had let Doctor Remson go home, also Garrison and Miss Gale. The waiters, too, had been sent off.
"You people can go, if you like," Fenn said, to Mrs. Reeves and myself. "I'll take your addresses, and you can expect to be called on as witnesses. If we ever get anything to witness! I never saw such a case! No criminal to arrest, and nobody knows the victim! He must be from out of town. We'll nail Mr. Steele to-morrow, and begin to get somewhere. Also we'll look up Miss Van Allen's credits and business acquaintances. A woman can't have lived two years in a house like this, and not have somebody know her antecedents and relatives. I suppose Mr. Steele brought his friend here, and then, when this thing happened he was scared and lit out."
"Maybe Steele did the killing," suggested Lowney.
"No," disagreed Fenn. "I believe that Dago waiter's yarn. I cross-questioned him a lot before I let him go, and I'm sure he's telling what he saw. I'll see Fraschini's head man to-morrow—or, I suppose it's to-morrow now—hello, who's that?"
Another policeman came in at the street door.
"What's up?" he said, looking about in amazement. "You here, Mr.Fenn? Lowney? What's doing?"
It was Patrolman Ferrall, the officer on the beat.
"Where you been?" asked the coroner. "Don't you know what has happened?"
"No; ever since midnight I been handling a crowd at a fire a couple blocks away. This is Miss Van Allen's house."
"Sure it is, and a friend of hers named Somers has been bumped off."
"What? Killed?"
"That's it. What do you know of Miss Van Allen?"
"Nothing, except that she lives here. Quiet young lady. Nothin' to be said about her. Who's the man?"
"Don't know, except named Somers. R. Somers."
"Never heard of him. Where's Miss Van Allen?"
"Skipped."
"What! That little thoroughbred can't be mixed up in a shootin'!"
"He isn't shot. Stabbed. With a kitchen knife."
"Let's see him."
The coroner and Ferrall went toward the dining room, and, on an irresistible impulse of curiosity, I followed.
"Him!" exclaimed Ferrall, as he caught sight of the dead man's features. "That ain't no Somers. That's Randolph Schuyler."
"What!"
"Sure it is. Schuyler, the millionaire. Lives on Fifth Avenue, not far down from here. Who killed him?"
"But look here. Are you sure this is Randolph Schuyler?"
"Sure? Of course I'm sure. His house is on my beat. I see him often, goin' in or comin' out."
"Well, then wehavegot a big case on our hands! Mason!"
The inspector could scarcely believe Ferrall's statement, but realized that the policeman must know.
"Whew!" he said, trying to think of a dozen things at once. "Then Steele knew him, and introduced him as Somers on purpose. No wonder the clubs didn't know of R. Somers! R. S. on his handkerchiefs and all that. He used a false name 'cause he didn't want it known that Randolph Schuyler came to see Miss Van Allen! Oh, here's a mess! Where's that girl? Why did she kill him?"
"She didn't!" Mrs. Reeves began to cry. "She didn't know itwasMr. Schuyler. She doesn'tknowMr. Schuyler. I'm sure she doesn't, because we were making lists for bazar patrons and she said she would ask only people she knew, and we tried to find somebody who knew Randolph Schuyler, to ask him, but we didn't know anybody who was acquainted with him at all. Oh, it can't be the rich Schuyler! Why would he come here?"
"We must get hold of Mr. Steele as soon as possible," said Fenn, excitedly. "Breen, call up his home address again, and if he isn't there, go there and stick till he comes. Now, for some one to identify this body. Call up the Schuyler house—no, better go around there. Where is it, Ferrall?"
"Go straight out to the Avenue, and turn down. It's No.—only part of a block down. Who's going?"
"You go, Lowney," said Fenn. "Mason, will you go?"
"Yes, of course. Come on, Lowney."
The coroner gave Mrs. Reeves and myself permission to go home, and I was glad to go. But Mrs. Reeves declared her intention of staying the night, what was left of it, in Miss Van Allen's house.
"It's too late for me to go down alone," she said, in her sensible way. "And, too, I'd rather be here, in case—in case Miss Van Allen comes home. I'm her friend, and I know she'd like me to stay."
As for me, I began to collect my senses after the shock of learning the true identity of the dead man. Though I had never met him, Randolph Schuyler was a client and friend of my partner, Charles Bradbury, and I suddenly felt a sort of personal responsibility of action.
For one thing, I disliked the idea of Mr. Schuyler's wife and family receiving the first tidings of the tragedy from the police. It seemed to me a friend ought to break the news, if possible.
I said as much to Coroner Fenn, and he agreed.
"That's so," he said. "It'll be an awful errand. In the middle of the night, too. If you're acquainted, suppose you go there with the boys, Mr. Calhoun."
"I'm not personally acquainted, but Mr. Schuyler is my partner's client, though there's been little business of his with our firm of late. But, as a matter of humanity, I'll go, if you say so, and be of any help I can."
"Go, by all means. Probably they'll be glad of your advice and assistance in many ways."
I dreaded the errand, yet I thought if the police had had to go and tell Winnie and Aunt Lucy any such awful news, how glad they'd be to have somebody present of their own world, even of their own neighborhood. So I went.
As we had been told, the Schuyler house was only a few doors below the Avenue corner. Even as Mason rang the bell, I was thinking how strange that a man should go to a house where he desired to conceal his own name, when it was so near his own dwelling.
And yet, I knew, too, that the houses on Fifth Avenue are as far removed from houses just off the Avenue, as if they were in a different town.
Mason's ring was answered by a keen-eyed man of imperturbable countenance.
"What's wanted?" he said, gazing calmly at the policemen.
"Where is Mr. Schuyler?" asked the inspector, in a matter-of-fact way.
"He's out," said the man, respectfully enough, but of no mind to be loquacious.
"Where?"
"I don't know. He went to his club after dinner, and has not yet returned."
"Are you his valet?"
"Yes, I wait up for him. He comes in with his key. I've no idea when he will return."
"Is his wife at home?"
"Yes, Mrs. Schuyler is at home." Clearly, this man was answering questions only because he recognized the authority that asked them. But he volunteered no information.
"Who else is in the family? Children?"
"No, Mr. Schuyler has no children. His two sisters are here, and Mrs.Schuyler. That is all."
"They are all in bed?"
"Yes, sir. Has anything happened to Mr. Schuyler?"
"Yes, there has. Mr. Schuyler is dead."
"Dead!" The imperturbable calm gave way, and the valet became nervously excited. "What do you mean? Where is he? Shall I go to him?"
"We will come in," said Lowney, for until now, we had stood outside."Then we will tell you. Are any of the other servants about?"
"No, sir, they are all in bed."
"Then—what is your name?"
"Cooper, sir."
"Then, Cooper, call the butler, or whoever is in general charge.And—summon Mrs. Schuyler."
"I'll call Jepson, he's the butler, sir. And I'll call Mrs. Schuyler's maid, Tibbetts, if she's in. And the maid, Hester, who waits on the Misses Schuyler. Shall I?"
"Yes, get things started. Get Jepson as soon as you can."
"This is an awful affair," said Mason, as Cooper went off. We were in the hall, a great apartment more like a room, save that a broad staircase curved up at one side. The furnishings were magnificent, but in a taste heavily ornate and a little old-fashioned. There were carved and upholstered benches, but none of us cared to sit. The tension was too great.
"Keep your eyes open, Lowney," he went on. "There's lots to be picked up from servants, before they're really on their guard. Get all you can about Mr. Schuyler's evening habits from the man, Cooper. But go easy with the ladies. It's hard enough for them at best."
The valet reappeared with Jepson. This butler was of the accepted type, portly and important, but the staggering news Cooper had evidently told him, had made him a man among men.
"What's this?" he said, gravely. "The master dead? Apoplexy?"
"No, Jepson. Mr. Schuyler was killed by some one. We don't know who did it."
"Killed! Murdered! My God!" The butler spoke in a strong, low voice with no hint of dramatic effect. "How will Mrs. Schuyler bear it?"
"How shall we tell her, Jepson?" Mason showed a consultant air, for the butler was so evidently a man of judgment and sense.
"We must waken her maid, and let her rouse Mrs. Schuyler. Then the other ladies, Mr. Schuyler's sisters, we mustcallthem."
"Yes, Jepson, do all those things, as quickly as you can."
But the wait seemed interminable.
At last the butler came back, and asked us up to the library, the front room on the floor above. Here a footman was lighting a fire on the hearth, for the house had the chill of the small hours.
First came the two sisters. These ladies, though not elderly, were middle-aged, and perhaps, a few years older than their brother. They were austere and prim, of aristocratic features and patrician air.
But they were almost hysterical in their excitement. A distressed maid hovered behind them with sal volatile. The ladies were fully attired, but caps on their heads and woolly wraps flung round them bore witness to hasty dressing.
"What is it?" cried Miss Rhoda, the younger of the two. "What has happened to Randolph?"
I introduced myself to them. I told them, as gently as I could, the bare facts, deeming it wise to make no prevarication.
So raptly did they listen and so earnestly did I try to omit horrible details, and yet tell the truth, that I did not hear Mrs. Schuyler enter the room. But she did come in, and heard also, the story as I told it.
"Can it not be," I heard a soft voice behind me say, "can it not yet be there is some mistake? Who says that man is my husband?"
I turned to see the white face and clenched hands of Randolph Schuyler's widow. She was holding herself together, and trying to get a gleam of hope from uncertainty.
If I had felt pity and sorrow for her before I saw her, it was doubly poignant now.
Ruth Schuyler was one of those gentle, appealing women, helplessly feminine in emergency. Her frightened, grief-stricken eyes looked out of a small, pale face, and her bloodless lips quivered as she caught them between her teeth in an effort to preserve her self-control.
"I am Chester Calhoun," I said, and she bowed in acknowledgment. "I am junior partner in the firm of Bradbury and Calhoun. Mr. Bradbury is one of your husband's lawyers and also a friend, so, as circumstances brought it about, I came here, with Inspector Mason, to tell you—to tell you—"
Mrs. Schuyler sank into a seat. Still with that air of determination to be calm, she gripped the chair arms and said, "I heard you tell Miss Schuyler that Randolph has been killed. I ask you, may it not be some one else? Why should he be at a house where people called him by a name not his own?"
She had heard, then, all I had told the older ladies. For Mrs. Schuyler was not old. She must be, I thought at once, years younger than her husband. Perhaps a second wife. I was glad she had heard, for it saved repeating the awful narrative.
"He has not been identified, Mrs. Schuyler," I said, "except by the policeman of this precinct, who declares he knows him well."
I was glad to give her this tiny loophole of possibility of mistaken identity, and she eagerly grasped at it.
"You must make sure," she said, looking at Inspector Mason.
"I'm afraid there's no room for doubt, ma'am, but I'm about to send the man, the valet, over to see him. Do you wish any one else to go—from the house?"
Mrs. Schuyler shuddered. "Don't ask me to go," she said, piteously."For I can't think it is really Mr. Schuyler—and if it should be—"
"Oh, no ma'am, you needn't go. None of the family, I should say."Mason looked at the elder ladies.
"No, no," cried Miss Sarah, "we couldn't think of it! But let Jepson go. He is a most reliable man."
"Yes," said Mrs. Schuyler, "send Cooper and Jepson both. Oh, go quickly—I cannot bear this suspense!" She turned to me, as the two men who had been hovering in the doorway, came in to take Mason's orders. "I thank you, Mr. Calhoun. It was truly kind of you to come. Tibbetts, get me a wrap, please."
This was Mrs. Schuyler's own maid, who went on the errand at once. More servants had gathered; one or two footmen, a silly French parlor-maid or waitress, and from downstairs I heard the hushed voices of others.
Tibbetts returned, and laid a fleecy white shawl about her mistress' shoulders. Mrs. Schuyler wore a house dress of dull blue. Her hair of an ash-blonde hue, was coiled on top of her head; and to my surprise, when I noticed it, she wore a string of large pearls round her throat, and on her hands were two rings, each set with an enormous pearl.
I must have been awkward enough to glance at the pearls, for Mrs. Schuyler remarked, "I dressed so hastily, I kept on my pearls. I wear them at night sometimes, to preserve their luster."
Then she apparently forgot them, for without self-consciousness she turned to the detective and began asking questions. Nervously she inquired concerning minutest details, and I surmised that side by side with her grief at the tragedy was a very human and feminine dismay at the thought of her husband, stabbed to death in another woman's house!
"Who is Miss Van Allen?" she asked over and over again, unsatisfied with the scant information Lowney could give.
"And she lives near here? Just down the side street? Whoisshe?"
"I don't think she is anyone you ever heard of," I said to her. "She is a pleasant young woman, and so far as I know, all that is correct and proper."
"Then why would she have Randolph Schuyler visiting her?" flashed the retort. "Is that correct and proper?"
"It may be so," I said, for I felt a sort of loyalty to Vicky Van. "You see, she was not acquainted with Mr. Schuyler until this evening."
"Why did he go there, then?"
"Steele brought him—Norman Steele."
"I don't know any Mr. Steele."
I began to think that Randolph Schuyler had possessed many acquaintances of whom his wife knew nothing, and I concluded to see Bradbury before I revealed any more of Schuyler's affairs.
And then, Lowney began adroitly to put questions instead of answering them.
He inquired concerning Mr. Schuyler's habits and pursuits, his recreations and his social life.
All three of the women gave responses to these queries, and I learned many things.
First, that Randolph Schuyler was one manner of man at home and another abroad. The household, it was plain to be seen, was one of most conservative customs and rigidly straightbacked in its conventions.
Mrs. Schuyler was not a second wife. She had been married about seven years, and had lived the last five of them in the house we were now in. She was much younger than her husband, and he had, I could see, kept her from all knowledge of or participation in his Bohemian tastes. They were the sort of people who have a box at the opera and are patrons of the best and most exclusive functions of the highest society. Mrs. Schuyler, after the first shock, recovered her poise, and though now and then a tremor shook her slight frame, she bore herself with dignity and calm.
The two maiden ladies also grew quieter, but we all nervously awaited the return of the butler.
At last he came.
"It's the master, Madame," he said, simply, to his mistress as he entered the room. "He is dead."
The deferential gravity of his tone impressed me anew with the man's worth, and I felt that the stricken wife had a tower of strength in the faithful servitor.
"I left Cooper there, Madame," he went on. "They—they will not bring Mr. Schuyler home tonight. In the morning, perhaps. And now, Madame, will you not go to rest? I will be at the service of these gentlemen."
It seemed cruel to torture them further that night, and the three ladies were dismissed by Lowney, and, attended by their maids, they left us.
"Now, Jepson," Lowney began, "tell us all you know about Mr.Schuyler's doings. I daresay you know as much as the valet does. WasMr. Schuyler as a man of the world, different from his life in thishouse?"
Jepson looked perturbed. "That's not for me to say, sir."
"Oh, yes, it is, my man. The law asks you, and it is for you to tell all you know."
"Well, then," and the butler weighed his words, "my master was always most strict of habit in his home. The ladies are very reserved, and abide by rules and standards, that are, if I may say so, out of date to-day. But, though Mr. Schuyler was by no means a gay man or a member of any fast set, yet I have reason to think, sir, that at times he might go to places where he would not take Mrs. Schuyler, and where he would not wish Mrs. Schuyler to know he had been himself."
"That's enough," said Lowney. "I've got his number. Now, Jepson, had your master any enemies, that you know of?"
"Not that I know of. But I know nothing of Mr. Schuyler's affairs. I see him go out of an evening, and I may notice that he comes in very late, but as to his friends or enemies, I know nothing at all. I am not one to pry, sir, and my master has always trusted me. I have endeavored not to betray that trust."
This might have sounded pharisaical in a man of less sincerity of speech. But Jepson's clear, straightforward eyes forbade any doubt of his honesty and truth.
Again I was glad that Mrs. Schuyler had this staunch helper at her side, for I foresaw troublous times in store for her.
"And you never heard of this Miss Van Allen? Never was in her house before?"
"Never, sir. I know nothing of the houses on the side blocks." I winced at this. "Of course, I know the people who come to this house, but there is among them no Miss Van Allen."
"Rather not!" I thought to myself. And then I sighed at the memory ofVicky Van. Had she killed this millionaire? And if so, why?
I was sure Vicky had never met Randolph Schuyler before that evening. I had seen their meeting, and it was too surely the glance of stranger to stranger that had passed between them, to make a previous acquaintance possible. Vicky had been charming to him, as she always was to every one, but she showed no special interest, and if she did really kill him, it was some unguessable motive that prompted the deed.
I thought it over. Schuyler, at the club, dined and wined, had perhaps heard Norman Steele extol the charms of Vicky Van. Interested, he had asked to be taken to Vicky's house, but, as it was so near his own, a sense of precaution led him to adopt another name.
Then the inexplicable sequel!
And the mysterious disappearance of Vicky herself.
Though, of course, the girl would return. As Mrs. Reeves had said, doubtless she had witnessed the crime, and, scared out of her wits, had run away. Her return would clear up the matter.
Then the waiter's story?
Well, there was much to be done. And, as I suddenly bethought me, it was time I, myself went home!
As I passed Vicky Van's house, on my way home, I saw lights pretty much all over it, and was strongly tempted to go in. But common sense told me I needed rest, and not only did I have many matters to attend to on the morrow, but I had to tell the story to Aunt Lucy and Winnie!
That, of itself, would require some thought and tactful management, for I was not willing to have them condemn Vicky Van entirely, and yet, I could think of no argument to put forth for the girl's innocence.
Time alone must tell.
"Ches-ter Cal-houn! Get up this minute! There's a reporter downstairs! A reporter!"
My sleepy eyes opened to find Winnie pounding my shoulder as it humped beneath the blanket.
"Hey? What?" I grunted, trying to collect my perceptions.
"Areporter!" If Winnie had said a Bengal tiger, she couldn't have looked more terrified.
"Great Scott! Win—I remember! Clear out, I'll be down in a minute."
I dressed in record time and went downstairs in three leaps.
In the library, I found Aunt Lucy, wearing an expression that she might have shown if the garbage man had asked her to a dance.
But Winnie was eagerly drinking in the story poured forth by the said reporter, who was quite evidently enjoying his audience.
"Oh, Chet, this is Mr. Bemis ofThe Meteor. He's telling us all about the—you know—what happened."
Winnie was too timid to say the wordmurder,and I was sorry she had to hear the awful tale from any one but myself. However, there was no help for it now, and I joined the group and did all I could to bring Aunt Lucy's eyebrows and nose down to their accustomed levels.
But itwasan awful story, make the best of it, and the truth had to be told.
"It is appalling," conceded Aunt Lucy, at length, "but the most regrettable circumstance, to my mind, is your connection with it all, Chester."
"Now, Auntie, have a little heart for poor Mrs. Schuyler, and those old lady sisters. Also for the man himself—"
"Oh, I have, Chet. I'm not inhuman. But those things are in the papers every day, and while one feels a general sympathy, it can't be personal if one doesn't know the people. But, for you to be mixed up in such matters—"
"I wasn't mixed up in it, Aunt Lucy, except as I chose to mix myself. And I've no doubt I should have gotten into it anyway. Mr. Bradbury will have a lot to do with it, I'm sure. I'm no better than he to mix in."
"In a business way, yes. But you were there socially—where a murder was committed—"
Aunt Lucy could have shown no more horror of it all, if I had been the convicted criminal.
"And, I'm glad I was!" I cried, losing patience a little. "If I can be of any help to the Schuyler people or to Miss Van Allen, I shall be willing to do all I can.
"But Miss Van Allen is the—the murderer!" and Aunt Lucy whispered the word.
"Don't say that!" I cried sharply. "You don't know it at all, and there's no reason to condemn the girl—"
I paused. Bemis was taking in my every word with a canny understanding of what I said, and also of what I didn't say.
"Where do your suspicions tend, Mr. Calhoun?" he said smoothly.
"Frankly, Mr. Bemis, I don't know. I am an acquaintance of Miss Van Allen and I cannot reconcile the idea of crime with her happy, gentle nature. Nor can I see any reason to suspect the waiter who first told of the matter. But might not some person, some enemy of Mr. Schuyler, have been secreted in the house—"
"A plausible theory," agreed Bemis, "even an obvious one, but almost no chance of it. I've seen the caterer's people, and they were in charge of the basement rooms and the dining-room all the evening. Unless it were one of the guests at the party, I think no intruder could have gotten in."
"Well," I returned, uneasily, for I wished he would go, "it isn't up to us to invent theories or to defend them. I will answer your necessary questions, but pardon me, if I remind you that I am a busy man and I haven't yet had my breakfast."
Bemis took the hint, and after a string of definite and pertinent questions, he left.
Winnie tried to detain him, but my curt courtesy made it difficult for him to linger.
"Oh, Chessy," cried my sister, as soon as Bemis had gone, "it's awful,I know, butisn'tit exciting?"
"Hush, Winnie," reproved Aunt Lucy. "A girl of your age should know nothing of these things, and I want you to put it out of your mind. You can be of no help, and I do not want your nerves disturbed by the harrowing details."
"That's all right, Aunt Lucy," I put in, "but this is going to be a celebrated case, and Winnie can't be kept in ignorance of its developments. Now be a good sort, Auntie—accept the inevitable. Try to realize that I must do what seems to me my duty, and if that brings us more or less into the limelight of publicity, it is a pity, but it can't be helped."
"I agree to all that, Chester, dear. But you are so mixed in it socially. Why did you ever get into that set?"
"It isn't a bad set, Aunt Lu. It isn't a fast set, by any means."
"You wouldn't see Winnie or me there."
"No, but a decent man goes to places where he wouldn't take his women people. Now, let up, Auntie. Trust your good-for-nothing nevvy, and just do all you can to help—by doing nothing."
"I'll help you, Chessy-Cat. I'll do exactly as you tell me, if you'll only let me know about it, and not treat me like a baby," said Winnie, who was wheedlesomely assisting my breakfast arrangements. She sugared and creamed my cereal, and, as I dispatched it, she buttered toast and poured coffee and deftly sliced off the top of a soft-boiled egg.
I managed to eat some of these viands between answers to their rapid-fire volley of questions and at last I made ready to go down town.
"And remember," I said, as I departed, "if a lot of gossippy old hens come around here to-day—or your chicken friends—Winnie, don't tell them a thing. Let 'em get it from the papers, or apply to information, or any old way, but don't you two give out a line of talk! See?"
I kissed them both, and started off.
Of course, I went over to Vicky Van's first. I had been on the proverbial pins and needles to get there ever since I woke to consciousness by reason of the sisterly pounding that brought me from the land of dreams.
The house had an inhabited look, and when I went in, I was greeted by the odor of boiling coffee.
"Come right down here," called Mrs. Reeves from the basement.
I went down, passing the closed dining-room door with a shudder. Two or three policemen were about, in charge of things generally, but none whom I knew. They had been relieved for the present.
"You're still here?" I said, a little inanely.
"Yes," returned Mrs. Reeves, who looked tired and wan. "I stayed, you know, but I couldn't sleep any. I lay down on the music-room couch, but I only dozed a few minutes at a time. I kept hearing strange sounds or imagining I did, and the police were back and forth till nearly daylight. Downstairs, they were. I didn't bother them, but they knew I was in the house, if—if Vicky should come home."
Her face was wistful and her eyes very sad. I looked my sympathy.
"You liked her, I know," she went on. "But everybody 'most, has turned against her. Since they found the man was Randolph Schuyler, all sympathy is for him and his widow. They all condemn Vicky."
"You can scarcely blame them," I began, but she interrupted,
"I do blame them! They've no right to accuse that girl unheard."
"The waiter—"
"Oh, yes, I know, the waiter! Well, don't let's quarrel about it. I can't stay here much longer, though. I made coffee and got myself some breakfast—but, honest, Mr. Calhoun, it pretty nearly choked me to eat sandwiches that had been made for last night's surprise supper!"
"I should think it would! Didn't any rolls come, or milk, you know?"
"I didn't see any. Well, I'll go home this morning, but I shall telephone up here every little while. The police will stay here, I suppose."
"Yes, for a day or two. Do you think Vicky will come back?"
"I don't know. She'll have to, sooner or later. I tried to make myself sleep in her room last night, but I just couldn't. So I stayed in the music room, I thought—I suppose it was foolish—but I thought maybe she might telephone."
"She'd hardly do that."
"I don't know. It's impossible to saywhatshe might do. Oh, the whole thing is impossible! Think of it, Mr. Calhoun. Where could that girl have gone? Alone, at midnight, in that gorgeous gown, no hat or wrap—"
"How do you know that?"
"I don't—not positively. But if she had put on wraps and gone out by either door she would surely have been seen by some one in the house. I'm just sure she didn't go out by the front street door, for we in the living-room must have noticed her. And she couldn't have gone out by the area door, for there were waiters all about, down here."
We were sitting in the front basement room, a pleasant enough place, evidently a servants' sitting room. Before Mrs. Reeves, on the table, were the remnants of her scarce tasted breakfast. As she had said, the tiny sandwiches and rich salad, which she had procured from the unused stores of the caterer's provision, did seem too closely connected with the tragedy to be appetizing.
"The kitchen is back of this?" I asked.
"Yes, and dumb waiters to the dining-room. I confess I've looked about a bit. I'm not a prying woman—but I felt I was justified."
"You certainly are, Mrs. Reeves," I said, warmly, for she was thoroughly good-hearted, and a staunch friend of Vicky Van. "Have you learned anything illuminating?"
"No; but things are queer."
"Queer, how?"
"Well, you wouldn't understand. A man couldn't. But it's this way. Lots of potted meats and jars of jam and cans of tea and coffee and cocoa in the pantry, but no fresh meat or green vegetables about. No butter in the icebox, and no eggs or bacon."
"Well, what does that imply? I'm no housekeeper, I admit."
"It looks to me as if Vicky was leaving this morning—I mean as if she had expected to go away to-day, and so had no stuff on hand to spoil."
"Perhaps this is her market day."
"No; it's queer, that's what it is. You know sometimes Vicky does go away for days at a time."
"Hasn't she a right to?"
"Of course she has. I'm thinking it out. Where does she go? And wherever it is, that's where she is now!"
Mrs. Reeves' triumphant air seemed to settle the question.
"But all that isn't queer, my dear lady," I said. "We all know Vicky Van gads about a lot. I've telephoned her myself twice, and she wasn't here. Once, Julie answered, and once there was no response of any sort."
"Yes, I suppose that's the case. She was going away on a visit to-day, maybe, and so had little food on hand to be disposed of. A good housekeeper would look after that. Of course, it wouldn't be Vicky's doing, but Julie's. That housekeeper is a treasure. She could run a hotel if she wanted to."
"Then, perhaps," I mused, aloud, "Vicky ran away and went to the place, wherever it is, that she expected to visit to-day."
"Oh, I don't know. This is all merely conjecture. And, too, how could she, in that dress? No, she has gone to some friend in town. She must have done so. A hotel wouldn't take her in—why," Mrs. Reeves' voice broke, "you know that waiter said there—there was blood on Vicky's gown!"
"Do you believe that?"
"If we believe him at all, why shouldn't we believe the whole tale? I don't know Vicky Van, you understand, except as a casual friend. I mean, I know nothing of her family, her past, or her personality, except as I've seen her in a friendly way. I like her, thoroughly, but I can't honestly say that I know her."
"Who does?"
"Nobody. All her friends say the same thing. She is lovely and dear, but never confidential, or communicative regarding herself."
"Wherever she went, Julie must be with her," I suggested.
"I don't know. I dare say that is so, but how on earth couldtwowomen get out of this house without its being known?"
"And yet, they did. Whether alone or together, they both got away last night. You don't think they're still concealed in the house?"
"Oh, no, of course not; after the search we made."
"I can't help thinking they'll turn up to-day. Julie, anyway. Why, Miss Van Allen must come back or send back for her valuables. I saw jewelry and money in the dressing-room."
"Yes; but, of course, they're safe enough. They're all in care of the police."
We were interrupted by the entrance of a policeman and a woman who had come to work.
"She says," the policeman addressed Mrs. Reeves, "that she was expected here to-day to clean. Now, we can't let her disturb things much, but she'd better wash up a little, and throw away some of the supper stuff that won't keep."
Everybody seemed to look to Mrs. Reeves as a sort of proxy housekeeper, and I wondered what they would have done without her. Though I suppose they would have managed.
"Yes, indeed," was her glad response. "Let her tidy up these breakfast things I've used, and there's some cups and plates in the kitchen, for I gave those poor policemen some food 'long 'bout three o'clock this morning. And she can throw out the melted ice cream, it's no good to anybody, and it surely isn't evidence!"
I determined to ask the working-woman some questions, but the police forestalled me.
Ferrall came down and joined us, and spoke to her at once.
"Good morning, Mrs. Flaherty. Don't you do anything now, but just what you're told to do. And first, tell us a thing or two. How often do you come here? I've seen you in and out, now and again."
"Yes, I do be comin' whin I'm sint for; not of a reg'lar day. Maybe wanst a week, maybe of'ner. Thin agin, not for a fortnight."
"Just as I said," declared Mrs. Reeves. "Vicky often goes away for days at a time."
"Shure she does that. Miss Van Allen is here to-day an' gone to-morrow, but Miss Julie she looks after me wurruk, so she does."
"She engages you when you are needed?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. They's a tillyphone in me husband's shop, an' if anny wan calls me, he lets me know."
"When did they tell you to come here to-day?"
"'Twas yisterday, sir. Miss Julie, she sinds wurrud for me to come this marnin' to clane, as they do be havin' a party last night. Ach, that this thrubble should come!"
"There, now, Mrs. Flaherty, never mind your personal feelings. We're in a hurry." Ferrall was busy making notes of the information he was getting, and I could well understand, that any side-light on Vicky's home life was of importance. So I tarried to listen.
"How long have you worked for Miss Van Allen?"
"A matther av a year or more."
"You clean the rooms upstairs, sometimes?"
"All over the house. Manny's the time I've shwept an' vacuumed Miss Van Allen's own bedroom an' boodore. An' likewise the music room an' parlure an' all. Yis, sor, I'm here frekint."
"What other servants does Miss Van Allen employ?"
"Nobody that lives in, 'ceptin' Miss Julie. But there's the laundry woman, as comes—though more often the wash goes out. Thin, there's a chore boy, as runs arrants; an' sometimes a sewin' woman; an' often the caterer man's dagoes. Yis, an' a boy, a Buttons you know, to open the dure for, say, an afternoon party. You see, Miss Van Allen is off visitin' so much, she don't want steady help."
"Where does she visit?"
"That I dunno. But go, she does, an' I'm thinkin' it's good times she has. For she comes back, chipper an' merry an' glad to see her friends—an' thin, all of a suddint, up an' off agin."
I knew that was Vicky Van's habit. All that the woman said corroborated my idea of the little butterfly's frivolous life. So, why should she keep permanent servants if she was at home only half the time? I knew the troubles Aunt Lucy had with her menials, and I approved of Vicky's wisdom.
"And that explains the empty icebox," Mrs. Reeves was saying, nodding her head in satisfaction. "Vicky meant to go off to-day, after the house was put in order, and she didn't want a lot of food left to spoil."
"Yis, mum," agreed Mrs. Flaherty. "Shall I wash thim dishes now, mum?"
And she was allowed to set to work.
There were many calls on Vicky Van's telephone that morning. It seemed to me that the bell rang almost continually. The police people answered it, and one time, I was surprised to learn that the call was for me.
I took up the receiver and heard Mr. Bradbury's voice.
"I called up your home," he said, "and your sister told me to try this number. Now, look here, Calhoun, I wish you'd go to see Mrs. Schuyler. I've talked with her over the telephone, and she asked me to come up there, but I've got the Crittendon case on this morning, and I can't get away very well. So you go and see what you can do for her. She told me you were there last night, and she's willing to have you in my place."
I agreed, feeling rather flattered that the rich man's widow should so readily accept me as Mr. Bradbury's substitute.
"I'm sorry you're going there," said Mrs. Reeves, her eyes filling with tears, as I took leave of her. "Of course, the Schuylers will pump you about Vicky, and try to make you say that she killed that man!"
"I must tell Mrs. Schuyler the truth," I said.
"Yes, but can't you give Vicky the benefit of the doubt? For there is a doubt. Why should she kill a man she never had seen before?"
"Perhaps he wasn't a stranger to her, after all."
"Why, I heard her say, before he came, that she didn't know him."
"You heard her say she didn't know Mr. Somers," I corrected. "I've been thinking this thing over. Suppose Vicky did know Mr. Schuyler, and when Steele proposed bringing a Mr. Somers—"
"No, you're all wrong!" she exclaimed. "I saw them when they met, and I'm sure they had never laid eyes on each other before. There was not the least sign of recognition. Besides, that isn't like Vicky—to have a millionaire and a married man for her friend. That girl is all right, Mr. Calhoun, and I don't want you to let Mrs. Schuyler think she isn't."
"Perhaps Mrs. Schuyler knows something about her."
"I doubt it. Anyway, you stand up for Vicky, as far as you can do so honestly. Won't you?"
"I can surely promise that," I replied, as I started on my errand.
Approaching the Fifth Avenue residence, I looked at the house, which I had been unable to see clearly the night before.
It was large and handsome, but not one of the most modern mansions. Four stories, it was, and as I glanced up I noticed that all the window shades were down. The floral emblem of death hung at one side of the wide entrance, and as I approached, the door silently swung open.
A footman was in charge, and I was ushered at once to the library where I had been some hours earlier. It was not a cheerful room; the appointments were heavy and somber, though evidently the woods and fabrics were of great value. A shaded electrolier gave a dim light, for the drawn blinds precluded daylight.
A soft step, and Mrs. Schuyler came into the room.
Black garb was not becoming to her. The night before, in her blue house-dress, she had looked almost pretty, but now, in a black gown, without even a bit of relieving white at her throat, she was plain and very pathetic.
Her face was pale and drawn, and her eyes showed dark shadows, as of utter weariness. She greeted me simply and glided to a nearby chair.
"It is kind of you to come, Mr. Calhoun," and the fine quality of her voice and inflection betokened New England ancestry, or training. "As you were here last night—you seem more like a friend than a mere business acquaintance."
"I am very glad, Mrs. Schuyler," and I spoke sincerely, "that you look on me like that. Please tell me anything you wish to, and command me in any way I can serve you."
The speech sounded a little stilted, I knew, but there was something about Ruth Schuyler that called for dignified address. She had the air of bewildered helplessness that always appeals to a man, but she had, too, a look of determination as to one who would do the right thing at any cost of personal unpleasantness.
"It is all so dreadful," she began, and an insuppressible sob threatened her speech. But she controlled it, and went on. "There is so much to be gone through with and I am so ignorant of—of law and—you know—of police doings."
"I understand," I returned, "and anything that you can be spared, rest assured you shall be. But there is much ahead of you that will be hard for you—very hard, and perhaps I can help you get ready for it."
"Will there be an inquest, and all that?" she whispered the word half fearfully.
"Yes, there must be; though not for several days, probably. You know they can't find Miss Van Allen."
"No. Where can she be? I don't suppose they will ever find her. Why should she kill my husband? Have you any theory, Mr. Calhoun? How well did you know this—this person?"
"Only fairly well. By which I mean, I have met her some half a dozen times."
"Always in her own house?"
"Not always. I've attended studio parties where she was present—"
"Oh, Bohemian affairs?"
"Not exactly. Miss Van Allen is a delightful girl, bright and of merry spirits, but in no way fast or of questionable habits."
"That's what they tell me; but pardon me, if I cannot believe a really nice, correct young woman would have a married man visiting her."
"But remember, Mrs. Schuyler, Miss Van Allen did not invite Mr. Schuyler to her house. As near as we can make out, Mr. Steele brought him, without Miss Van Allen's permission. And under an assumed name."
A blush of shame stained her face.
"I realize," she said, "how that reflects against my husband. Must all this be made public, Mr. Calhoun?"
"I fear it must. The law is inexorable in its demands for justice."
"But if they can't find Miss Van Allen, how can they indict her? or whatever the term is. Why can't the whole affair be hushed up? Personally, I would far rather never find the girl—never have her punished, than to drag the Schuyler name through the horrors of a murder trial."
"I quite understand your position, but it will not be possible to evade the legal proceedings. Of course, if Miss Van Allen is never found, the affair must remain a mystery. But she will be found. A lady like that can't drop out of existence."
"No, of course not. Why, her bills must be paid, her household effects looked after; is she in a house or an apartment?"
"A house. I understand she owns it."
"Then she must communicate with her business people—lawyer, bank or creditors. Can't you trace her that way?"
"We hope to. As you say, she must surely return to attend to such matters."
"And her servants? What do they say?"
I described the unusual menage that Vicky Van supported, and Mrs.Schuyler was interested.
"How strange," she said. "She sounds to me like an adventuress!"
"No, she isn't that. She has money enough."
"Where does she get it?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. But she is a quiet, self-reliant little person, and not at all of the adventuress type."
"It doesn't matter," and Mrs. Schuyler sighed. "I don't care anything about her personality. She must be bad or she wouldn't have killed my husband. I'm not defending him, but men don't go to the houses of complete strangers and get murdered by them! And I hope she will never be found, for it might bring out a story of scandal or shame that will always cling to Mr. Schuyler's memory. But, of course, she will come back, and she will plead innocence and lay all blame on Mr. Schuyler. Can't we buy her off? I would pay a large sum to keep her story from the world."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Schuyler, but that can't be done."
"I thought you would help me—I'm so disappointed."
Tears gathered in her eyes, and her voice trembled. I wished Bradbury had had this job instead of myself, for I am soft-hearted where feminine appeal is concerned, and I didn't know quite what to say.
But just then the two Schuyler sisters came into the library and I rose to greet them.
"Oh," cried Miss Rhoda, "it's all too awful! We can't believe it! I wish I had that girl here! You must find her, Mr. Calhoun—you must!"
"Yes," chimed in Miss Sarah; "she must be brought to judgment. An eye for an eye and a life for a life. That's the Scripture law."
"Don't talk so, Sarah," pleaded Ruth Schuyler. "It won't bring Randolph back, to punish his murderer. And think of the awful publicity!"
"I don't care for that. Murder has been done and murder must be avenged. I'm ashamed of you, Ruth, if you let any idea of personal distaste stand in the way of righteous law and order."
"I, too," agreed Rhoda. "Spare no effort or expense, Mr. Calhoun, to find that wicked girl and have her arrested."
"I daresay you are right," and Mrs. Schuyler's acquiescence showed her to be more or less under the iron hand of the family opinion. "Of course, if you feel that way, I shall raise no obstacle to the law's progress. Whatever you advise, Rhoda, I agree to."
"Certainly you do. You are young, Ruth, and you are not a Schuyler. Why, the very name demands the strongest powers of the law. I only fear that the most desperate efforts may not succeed. What is your opinion, Mr. Calhoun? Can they find that woman?"
The scorn of the last two words, as uttered by Rhoda Schuyler's sharp tongue, is not to be reproduced in print.
"I think most probably, yes, Miss Schuyler. I think she must return sooner or later."
"Don't wait for that!" exclaimed Sarah. "Send people to search for her. Scour the country. Don't let her get away beyond retrieval. Offer a reward, if necessary, but get her!"
"A reward!" repeated Rhoda. "Yes, that's it. Put it in the paper at once; a large reward for any information of Miss Van Allen."
"Stay," I urged; "don't decide on such measures too hastily. Might you not defeat your own purpose? Miss Van Allen doubtless will see the papers, wherever she may be. If she learns of the reward, she will hide herself more securely than ever."
"I think so, too," said Ruth, in her gentle voice. "I am sure, Rhoda, we oughtn't to do anything like that just yet. Oh, how hard it is to know what to do."
"Yes, we've always deferred everything to Randolph. How can we get along without him?"
"We must," and Mrs. Schuyler set her pale lips together in an evident determination to be brave and strong. "Now, Mr. Calhoun, what is there to be discussed in a business way? I mean regarding Mr. Schuyler's business with you or Mr. Bradbury?"
"Nothing at present," I returned, feeling sure the poor woman had quite enough on her mind. "The will can be examined at your convenience, and any questions of securities or money can rest over for a time. Do you wish any ready cash? Or shall we look after any money matters?"
"Thank you, no. Such things are systematically arranged in the household. Jepson attends to bills and tradesmen. My greatest wish is for a secretary or some person to write notes and look after the flood of letters and telegrams that has already begun."
I felt surprised, for I had assumed that the rich man's wife had a social secretary of her own.
"I've no one," she said, in response to my glance, "Mr. Schuyler didn't wish me to have a secretary, and indeed I didn't need one. But now—"
"Of course, it is necessary now."
"Not at all," interrupted Miss Rhoda. "I am surprised at you, Ruth! You know how Randolph objected to such things, and now, as soon as he is gone, you begin to—"
"Hush, Rhoda," said Ruth, with gentle dignity. "It was not necessary before, but it is now. You've no idea what a task it will be. All our friends and many of Randolph's acquaintances will call or send messages and they must be acknowledged—"
"And, pray, what else have you to do, but acknowledge them? Sarah and I will attend to our own. A great many, doubtless, but not too much of a task for us, when it is in memory of our dear brother!"
"Very well," and Ruth spoke calmly, "we will wait for a day or two, Mr. Calhoun, and then, if, as I believe, the matter requires further consideration, we will discuss it again."
Clever woman, I thought to myself. She isn't altogether chummy with those old maid sisters, and yet she knows better than to have any open disagreement. I'll bet she gets her secretary when she gets ready for one! I'll be on the lookout for the right girl for her.
"When will they bring my husband home?" she continued, without waiting for comment on her decision about the secretary.
"Some time to-day," I returned, looking commiseratingly at the harassed white face. "Probably this afternoon. Can I take any message regarding the funeral arrangements?"
"Not yet," and Ruth Schuyler shuddered. "Those details are so terrible—"
"Terrible, yes," said Miss Sarah, "but they must be looked after. We will see the undertaker's men, Ruth. I think Rhoda and I will know better what is fit and proper for Randolph's burial ceremonies than you possibly can."
I began to realize that the sisters had a family pride which did not include their brother's wife in their councils. Apparently she was, or they deemed her, of lesser birth or social standing. Personally, however, I greatly preferred the gentle kindliness of the widow to the aristocratic hauteur of the sisters.
Ruth Schuyler made no objection to the proposition, and seemed relieved that her advice would not be required.
"Who is in the house where Mr. Schuyler was—where he died?" she asked, hesitatingly.
"Only the police," I answered, "unless Miss Van Allen has returned."
"Were—were there many people there—last night?"
Clearly, she wanted to know more details of the occasion, but didn't like to show curiosity.
"Yes," I informed her, "quite a number. It was Miss Van Allen's birthday, and so, a sort of little celebration."
"Her birthday? How old was she?"
"I've no idea. I should guess about twenty-two or twenty-three."
"Is she—is—what does she look like?"
The eternal feminine wanted to ask "is she pretty?" but Ruth Schuyler's dignity scarcely permitted the question. I noticed, too, that the sisters listened attentively for my reply.
"Yes," I said, truthfully, "she is pretty. She is small, with very black hair, and large, dark gray eyes. She is exceedingly chic and up-to-date as to costumes, and is of vivacious and charming manner."
"Humph!" sniffed Miss Rhoda, "an actress?"
"Not at all! Victoria Van Allen is a well-bred lady if there ever was one."
"You are a staunch friend, Mr. Calhoun," and Mrs. Schuyler looked her surprise.
"I speak only as I feel; I can't say surely that Miss Van Allen did not commit this crime, for I know there is evidence against her. But I can't reconcile the deed with her character, as I know it, and I, for one, shall wait further developments before I condemn her. But, of course, Mrs. Schuyler, my personal feelings in the matter have no weight in law, and I stand ready to obey whatever orders you may give in connection with a search for the missing girl."
"I don't know exactly what I do want done, yet, Mr. Calhoun," and RuthSchuyler glanced deferringly toward the sisters.
"No, we don't." For once Sarah agreed with Ruth. "After the funeral, we can set our minds to the finding of the criminal. Of course, the police will do all they can, meantime, to trace her?"
"Of course. And such a plan is best. She may return—"
"To a house guarded by police?" asked Ruth.
"Possibly. If she is innocent, why not?"
"Innocent!" exclaimed Miss Rhoda with utmost scorn.
"Some of her friends think her so," I observed. "Mrs. Reeves, a lady who was at the party, stayed in the house all night, and is, I think, there still."
"Why did she do that?" asked Mrs. Schuyler, looking puzzled.
"She hoped Miss Van Allen would return, and she waited there to look after her."
"That was kind. Who is this lady?"
"She lives down on Washington Square. I only know her slightly, but she is a warm-hearted and a most capable and sensible one. She refuses to believe that Vicky Van—"
"What do you call her?"
"Her friends call her Vicky Van. It—it sort of suits her."
"From what you say, I judge she is not the terror I thought her at first; but, all the same, she murdered my husband, and I cannot look on her as you seem to."
"Nor can I blame you. Your feelings toward her are entirely just, Mrs.Schuyler."