"I can't think that," said Ruth Schuyler, wearily. "It seems more to me as if that letter exculpates the girl. She was quite evidently not in love with my husband, and she honestly tried to make him understand her scruples. So I can't think she killed him. I did think so at first, of course, but on thinking things over, and in the light of this letter, I begin to believe her innocent. What date does the letter bear?"
"There's no date," said Lowney, looking at the paper. "It was not in an envelope—"
"Then how did it reach my husband?"
"Oh, of course, it came in an envelope, I suppose, but I found none with it. So we can't tell where it was sent, here or to one of his clubs or to his office address."
"Not here, I'm sure," said Mrs. Schuyler. "Probably to his club. You are quite welcome to the letter, Mr. Lowney. Make what use you think best of it. If it serves to establish Miss Van Allen's innocence, I shall be rather glad. But if it seems to throw further suspicion on her, then justice must be done."
"Of course, it throws suspicion on that woman!" declared Miss RhodaSchuyler, with a vindictive glance at the letter in Lowney's hand."The hussy, to write to Randolph at all!"
"But," I interposed, unable to stand this unjust speech, "Mr. Schuyler must have made advances to her first."
"She lured him on. I've heard you say yourself, Mr. Calhoun, that thisVan Allen person is a siren, a—"
"Now, now, Miss Rhoda," I began, but the other sister chimed in.
"Of course she is! Of course, the wrong was mostly hers. And she killed Randolph, I know it! Why, the waiter man saw her! Go ahead, Mr. Lowney, hunt her down, and bring her to account. I never shall sleep peacefully until my brother's death is avenged! I cannot understand, Ruth, how you can be so indifferent."
A flush rose to Ruth Schuyler's cheek, and, enlightened anew to her husband's character by that letter, I began to feel a different sort of sympathy for the widow.
Randolph Schuyler had been unfaithful, he had been domineering and tyrannical, and I knew he had not allowed his wife to have the comforts and luxuries she desired, although he was enormously wealthy.
A social secretary, for instance. Most women of Ruth Schuyler's rank in society had that necessary assistant, yet, during Schuyler's life his wife was forbidden the favor.
Winnie had told me this, and had told me much more, that proved how unjust and unkind Randolph Schuyler had been. The sisters, too, shared his views, and as a consequence, the household was run on old-fashioned lines that ill accord with the ways of to-day.
Mrs. Schuyler had in no way complained, Win told me, but it was easily seen how matters stood. It fell to Winnie's lot to order many things from the shops—stationery, mourning apparel, and house needs. These, my sister said, were ordered with the most perfect taste, but with a lavishness, which was indubitably unusual to Ruth Schuyler.
The sisters exclaimed at the extravagance, but Ruth, though listening politely, serenely went her own way, and carried out her own plans. In the matter of fresh flowers, she was like a child, Win said, and she enjoyed the blossoms she ordered as if she had hungered for them for years. Winnie was growing deeply attached to her employer, if that word is applicable, and Ruth Schuyler was fond of Win.
But I am digressing. Mrs. Schuyler replied to her sister-in-law's speech by saying, gently, "I am not indifferent, Sarah, but it seems to me we have no real evidence against the girl, and—"
"No real evidence! When she was caught red-handed! Or nearly caught! If that stupid waiter had had sense enough to jump and grab her, we would have had no search to make at all!"
"It may be so, Sarah, you may be right. But until you do find her don't condemn her utterly. From what Mr. Calhoun has told me of her and from the tone of that letter she wrote to Randolph, I can't make it seem possible that she killed a man she knew so slightly. And yet, it may be she did."
"Well," remarked Lowney, "the note proves that she had seen Mr.Schuyler before, anyway. Then, when he came to her house as Mr.Somers, she was naturally annoyed, as she had asked him not to do so.And all that is against the girl, I say. But it remains to be seenwhat the coroner's jury will think of it."
"They'll see it in its true light," declared Rhoda Schuyler. "Of course, she was angry when he came to her house after being forbidden, unless the sly thing wrote the note just to lure him on, but in any case, she was alone with him, she used the knife on him and she ran away. What more evidence do you need? Now, to find her. That's a task I shall never give up or neglect until I've accomplished it."
"And you are right, Rhoda," said Ruth, "if the girl is guilty. I hope she will be found, for I'm sure the truth could then be learned, whether she is guilty or not."
"Will you come, now, Mrs. Schuyler," said Tibbetts, from the doorway."The flowers have arrived."
Ruth, beckoning to Winnie, rose, and the two left the room.
"Perfectly idiotic," said Sarah, "the way she orders flowers! Fresh ones every day!"
"But hasn't she a right to spend her own money as she likes?" I defended.
"A legal right, perhaps," was the retort, "but not a moral right to disregard her husband's wishes so utterly."
Next morning at breakfast, there was but one topic of conversation. Indeed, little else had been talked of for days but the Schuyler case and all its side issues.
Winnie held forth at length on the martyrdom Ruth Schuyler had suffered because of the cruelty of her late husband.
"He wasn't really ugly, you know," explained Win, "and I don't say she's glad he's dead. But he thwarted her in every little way that she wanted to enjoy herself. They had a box at the opera, and a big country house and all that, but he wouldn't let her go to matinees or have a motor of her own or buy anything until he had passed judgment on it. She even had to submit her costume designs to him, and if he approved the dressmaker made them up. And he wouldn't let her have fashionable clothes. They had to be plain and of rich heavy materials, such as the sisters wear. Mr. Schuyler was under the thumb of those two old maids, and Rhoda, especially, put him up to all sorts of schemes to bother Ruth."
"Do you call her Ruth?" I asked, in surprise.
"Yes, she told me I might. She's lovely to me, and I'm so glad to do all I can for her. Honest, Chet, she lived an awful life with that man."
"I'd like to see her," said Aunt Lucy. "All you've said about her,Winnie, makes me a bit curious."
"So you shall, Auntie, some time. She's a real friend of mine now, and even after Edith Crowell goes there as secretary, she says I must often go to see her as her friend."
"She's charming," I declared. "Every time I see her I'm more impressed with her gentle dignity. And I don't know how she can be so decent to those two old women."
"Nor I," agreed Win, as Aunt Lucy asked, "Is she pretty?"
"Is she, Winnie?" I said.
"Well, she is and she isn't. She's so colorless, you know. Her hair is that flat ashy blonde, and she's so pale always. Then her eyes and lashes are so light, and—well, ineffective. But her expression is so sweet, and when once in a while she laughs outright, she's very attractive. And she's such a thoroughbred. She never errs in taste or judgment. She knows just what to reply to all the queer letters of condolence that come to her, and just how to talk to the people who call. And that's another thing. She hasn't any friends of her own age. She knows only the people who belong to the most exclusive set, and they're nearly all the age of the old sisters. But Mrs. Schuyler is lovely to them. And in her soft pretty black gowns she looks a whole lot better than she ever did in the ones she wore while he was alive. I've seen them in her wardrobe, and I've seen her try on some that she was going to give away, and they're sights! Elegant, you know, but not the thing for her. Now, that she can select her own, she has beauties."
"She certainly must be glad, then, to be freed from such a tyrant," said Aunt Lucy.
"Now don't you think that!" insisted Winnie, earnestly. "She may feel, so, 'way down in her deepest heart, but she won't admit it, even to herself. And, of course, no matter how much she didn't love him, she wouldn't want him taken offthatway! No, she's perfectly all right, and she mourns that man just as sincerely as any woman could mourn a man who didn't understand her."
I looked at Win in amazement. Little sister was growing up, it seemed. Well, the experience would do her no harm. Ruth Schuyler's influence could work only for good, and a taste of real life would give a wider outlook than Win could get at home.
I went down to the coroner's courtroom. The inquest was proceeding in its usual discursive way, and I sat down to listen for a while. The coroner was hearing reports from detectives who had interviewed the market men and shopkeepers where Vicky Van had bought wares.
It was just what might be expected from any householder's record. Vicky had always paid her bills promptly, usually by check on a well-known bank. Sometimes, if the bills were small they were paid in cash. In such case Miss Van Allen herself or the maid brought the money; if checks, they were sent by mail. The garage man reported a similar state of affairs. His monthly bills were promptly paid, and Miss Van Allen had found no fault with his service. She was away from home frequently, but when at home, she used her motor car often and was kind to the chauffeur who drove her. This chauffeur told of taking her to the shops, to the theatre, to friends' houses and to picture galleries—but had never been directed to any place where a lady might not go.
The bank people said that Miss Van Allen had had an account with them for years, but as their depositors were entitled to confidential dealings they would say little more. They stated, however, that Miss Van Allen was a most desirable patron and never overdrew her account or made trouble of any sort.
There was nothing to be gleaned from this kind of testimony. We all knew that Vicky was a good citizen and all this was merely corroboration. What was wanted was some hint of her present whereabouts.
Lowney had tried to get at this by the use of an address book he had found in Vicky Van's desk. He had telephoned or called on many of the people whose addresses were in the book, but all said over and over what we already knew.
Personally, I felt sure that Vicky was staying with some friend not far from her own house. It could well be, that somebody cared enough for the girl to hide her from the authorities. This, however, argued her guilty, for otherwise, a true friend would persuade her that the wiser course would be to disclose herself to the public.
However, nothing transpired to bear out my opinion, and as the list of witnesses dwindled, no progress was made toward a solution of the mystery. And so, when at last, an open verdict was returned, with no mention of Vicky's name, I was decidedly relieved, but I didn't see how it could have been otherwise.
I dropped in at the Schuyler house on my way home. I was beginning to feel on a very friendly footing there, and, partly owing to Winnie's graphic powers of narration, I took an increasing interest in Ruth Schuyler.
As Win had said, she looked charming, although pathetic in her black robes. She permitted herself a touch of white at the turned-in throat, and a white flower was tucked in her bodice. A contrast, indeed, to the severe garb of the spinster sisters, who looked like allegorical figures of hopeless gloom.
But their manner was more of militant revenge, and, having heard the verdict of the coroner's jury, they were ready to take up the case themselves.
"Come in, Mr. Calhoun," they called out, as I entered the library, "you're just the man we want to see. Now, that the coroner has finished his task, we will take the matter up. Mr. Lowney, I suppose, will continue the search for Miss Van Allen, but we fear he will not be successful. So, we have determined to send for the great detective, Fleming Stone."
"Stone!" I cried, "why, he won't work with the police."
"Then he can work without them," declared Rhoda, with asperity. "I've heard wonderful stories of that man's success, and we're going to engage him at once."
"He's very expensive," I began.
"No matter. We're going to find our brother's murderer if it takes every penny of our fortune."
"What do you think of this plan, Mrs. Schuyler?" I asked.
"I've not been consulted," she said, with a slight smile. "Since Mr. Randolph's sisters choose to adopt it, I have no reason to object. I know nothing of Mr. Stone, but if he is really a great detective, he will not condemn that girl unheard. And if she is proved guilty, of course the claims of justice must be met. Do you know him, Mr. Calhoun?"
"Not personally. I've often heard of him, and he's a wonder. If you want to find Miss Van Allen, you can't do better than to get him on the trail. If he can't find her, nobody can."
"That's what I say," put in Sarah. "And if he doesn't find her, at least we've the satisfaction of knowing we've done all we could."
"We thought of offering a reward for information of Miss Van Allen," added Rhoda, "but if we're going to get Mr. Stone, wouldn't it be better to consult him about that?"
"I think it would," I judged.
Just then Winnie came into the room. She had been writing notes, and she held a lot of unopened letters in her hand.
"Oh, Ruth," she cried, "what do you think! Here's the mail, Jepson just gave it to me, and there's a letter for you from Miss Van Allen!"
"What!" cried everybody at once.
"Yes," declared Winnie, "I know the hand, it's the same as was on that letter to Mr. Schuyler. It's such a queer hand, you can't forget it."
She handed all the letters to Ruth, the one she referred to on top.
Mrs. Schuyler turned pale as she looked at the envelope. I glanced at it, too, and without doubt, it was Vicky Van's writing.
It had been mailed in New York that same morning, and delivered just now, about five o'clock.
"You open it, Mr. Calhoun," said Ruth, as if she shrank from the task.
I took it gravely, for it seemed to me to portend trouble for littleVicky. Was she giving herself up, or what?
Win handed me a letter-opener, and I slit the envelope.
As they breathlessly awaited my words, I read:
To Mrs. Randolph Schuyler: Dear Madam: It is useless to look for me. To-day I am leaving New York forever. The mystery of Mr. Schuyler's death will never be solved, the truth never learned. I alone know the secret and it will die with me. You may employ detectives from now till doomsday but you will discover nothing. So give up the search, for you will never find Victoria Van Allen.
There was a pause as I finished reading. Myself, I was thrilled by a certain phrase in the letter. Vicky said, "the secret will die with me." Again, I felt that she was intending to bring about her own death, and that speedily. Would we know it if she did? I was thinking deeply, when Miss Rhoda, spoke:
"I believe that girl means to kill herself, and I should think she would!"
"Why do you think that?" and Ruth looked up with a startled face.
"It sounds so, and it would be the natural outcome of her remorse at her dreadful deed."
"I think she must be guilty," said Winnie, her dear little countenance drawn with grief, as she studied the letter for herself.
None of us said much more. We all were stunned in a way, by this unexpected development, and had to readjust our theories.
"Well," Miss Rhoda said, decidedly, "I shall consult Mr. Stone, anyway. I've written him, and though I've not mailed the letter yet, I shall send it off to-night. Then when he comes to talk it over we can see what he says and abide by his judgment."
"That's a good idea, Rhoda," and Ruth Schuyler nodded assentingly; "I, too, want justice, and if Fleming Stone thinks he can find Miss Van Allen, let him do so."
It was six o'clock then, and Win and I went home, leaving the Schuyler ladies to their own discussions.
Ruth Schuyler's hand lingered a moment in mine, as I bade her adieu, and she said, wistfully, "I wish you would tell me just what you think we had better do. I am so unaccustomed to judging for myself in any important matter."
"I think it is wise to get Mr. Stone," I returned. "In any case it can do no harm, you know."
"No, I suppose not," and she gave me one of her rare smiles of appreciation. "I am glad you are looking after us, instead of Mr. Bradbury," she said further, and I sincerely responded that I was glad, too.
Another surprise awaited me at home. On the hall table lay my own mail, and as I picked it up, and ran the letters over, there was one from Vicky Van.
I hastily concealed it from Winnie's sharp eyes, for I had no notion what it might divulge, and hurried with it up to my own room.
Impatiently I tore it open and raced through its contents.
Dear Mr. Calhoun:
Thank you deeply for attending to my errand. Owing to your kindness I received the letters I wanted. Now, will you do me one last favor? Come again to the house tonight, and take a small parcel which you will find in the Chinese jar in the music room. Keep this for me and if I do not ask you for it within a year, destroy it unopened. I wish I could be more frank with you, you have proved yourself such a staunch friend, but I cannot control circumstances and so I must bear my fate. I do not know what Mrs. Schuyler will think of it, but I have written her a letter. When you see her, try to make her realize it is useless to hunt for me. Since I can keep hidden for this length of time, my retreat is not likely to be discovered. And now, my kindest of friends, good-bye.
Vicky Van.
I stood, staring at the letter. I read it through a dozen times. Of course, I would do her bidding, but my heart rebelled at the finality of the lines. I knew I would never hear from Vicky Van again. As she said, since we hadn't traced her yet, we never could.
I wondered where she could possibly be. And Julie, too. Somebody was shielding them both. They couldn't be disguised or anything of that sort, for they had left the house at dead of night, without luggage or—and I hadn't thought of this before—without money! How could they have found shelter, save in some friend's house?
Of course, Vicky could have snatched up a purse as she ran. Perhaps that was what she flew upstairs for. And then, maybe, she went down the back stairs—but no, the waiters must have seen her that way. And Luigi was in the front hall a moment after Vicky disappeared.
Aside from my personal interest, I hated to think I should never know just how she did get away. For now, I had no hope that Fleming Stone or anyone else could ever find the girl. She was too canny to be taken, after her successful concealment so far.
I went downstairs after a time, but I said nothing of my letter toAunt Lucy or Win.
They were eagerly discussing the latest news, and Aunt Lucy was saying, "Yes, I've heard of Mr. Stone, and they do say he's a marvel. I hope he'll find the girl, if only to learn the mystery of her disappearance."
"Oh, he'll find her," assured Winnie, "I've heard a lot about him over there and he's a wizard! But I think he'll have a long chase."
"Meantime, what becomes of the house?" queried Aunt Lucy. "What does,Chet? Can anyone go in it who likes?"
"No," I returned, a little shortly, for I foresaw Aunt Lucy had that absurd feminine desire to pry into another person's home. "It's in charge of the police, and they won't let anyone in, without some very good reason."
"Couldn't you get in?"
"I suppose I might," I admitted unwillingly, "if I had any business there."
"Oh, do get up some business, Chet," begged Winnie, "and get the keys and let Auntie and me go with you! Oh, do! I'd love to see that girl's things!"
"Winnie, you're positively lowbred to show such curiosity!" I exclaimed, angrily—the more so, that I had the house key in my pocket at that moment. But I was glad I had not told them of Vicky Van's letter to me!
I waited until well past midnight, and then, after seeing the post patrol pass Vicky's door, I softly went out of my own house, and across the street.
I walked calmly up the steps of Vicky's home, and sadly put the latchkey in the door—for the last time. I felt as if I were performing funeral rites, and I entered and closed the door behind me, softly, as one does in the house of death.
I went up the stairs, in the gloom. It was not black darkness, for a partly raised blind gave me a glimmer of light from the street. Into the music room I went, and by my pocket flashlight, I took the lid from the Chinese jar. But there was no parcel inside!
Amazed, I threw the light down into the big vase, but it was utterly empty.
There was no use looking elsewhere for the parcel—I knew Vicky well enough to know that she would do exactly as she had said. Or, since she hadn't, I was sure that she would not have left that parcel in any other hiding-place.
I put the flashlight back in my pocket, and started downstairs.
Slowly I descended, for I still felt a little uncertain what to do. Should I wait for a short time, or go back home and return again later?
I reached the foot of the stairs, and concluded to go home, and then think out my next step.
As I passed the living-room door, I heard a low voice whisper my name.
I turned sharply. In the doorway, I could dimly discern a cloaked figure. "Hush!" she said, softly, and beckoned to me.
It was Vicky Van!
Vicky had said "Hush!" but it was an unnecessary precaution, for I was too stunned to articulate. I peered at her in the darkness and then, unable to control my desire for certainty I flashed my little pocket light on her for an instant.
"Don't!" she whispered, putting her hands up before her face.
But I had seen. It was really Vicky Van, her smooth black hair looped over her ears, her scarlet mouth, and soft pink cheeks, flushed with excitement of the moment, and her long dark lashes, which suddenly fell beneath the blinding flare of the light, all were those of the runaway girl.
"Don't talk," she said, hastily, "let me do the talking. I want you to help me, will you?"
"Of course, I will," and all sense of law and justice fled before the wave of pity and solicitude for the trembling suppliant who thus appealed to me.
Her voice was indistinct and a little hoarse, as if she was laboring under great mental and nerve strain, and she was so alone, so unprotected, that I couldn't help promising any assistance in my power.
"There wasn't any parcel in the big vase," I said, in a low voice, as she seemed to hesitate about going on with her explanation.
"No, here it is," and she handed me a little box, "Just put it away safely for the present. And now, this is what I want to ask of you. Don't let them engage that Mr. Stone, to hunt me down, will you?"
"Why, how can I help it?"
"Oh, can't you?" and she sounded so disappointed; "I hoped you could persuade Mrs. Schuyler not to have him."
"But Mrs. Schuyler doesn't want him, either!" I exclaimed. "It's those two sisters who insist on getting him. And I never could turn their wills, try as I might."
"Why doesn't Mrs. Schuyler want him?"
"Oh, I'm not sure that she really objects to the plan, but, I mean she didn't seem as anxious as the other two. You see, little girl, the widow of Randolph Schuyler isn't so bitter against you as the two sisters are."
"That's good of her," and Vicky's voice was wistful. "But, you know I must remain in hiding—"
"I thought you were going to leave New York?"
"I am. And at once. But if that Mr. Stone gets on my trail, he'll find me, as sure as fate. And so I risked this interview to try to persuade you to use your influence against his coming."
"And I'll do that," I returned, heartily. "But I feel that I ought to tell you that I doubt my power to dissuade the Schuyler sisters from their determination. And, too, how did you know they thought of getting him?"
"Oh, I see all the papers, you know, and in one of them a reporter gave a personal interview with the Schuyler people, and they hinted at getting that man."
Vicky sighed wearily, as if her last hope was gone. I was full of questions I wanted to ask her, but it seemed intrusive and unkind to quiz her. And yet, one thing I felt I must say. I must ask her what she knew of the actual crime.
"Tell me," I blurted out, "who did kill Randolph Schuyler?"
Again I felt her tremble, and her voice quivered as she whispered back, "It must have been some enemy of his, who got in at the window, or something like that."
My heart fell. This was the sort of thing she would say if she were herself the guilty one. I had hoped for a more sincere, even if despairing, answer.
"But I must send you away," she breathed in my ear. We were standing just inside the room, and Vicky held her hand on a chair-back for support. There was the faintest light from the street, enough for us to distinguish one another's forms, but no more. Vicky wore a street gown of some sort, and a long cloak. On her head was a small hat, and a black net veil. This was tied so tightly that it interfered a little with her speech, I thought, though when I had looked at her face by my flashlight, the veil had not been of sufficient thickness to conceal her features at all. I've often wondered why women wear those uncomfortable things. She kept pulling it away from her lips as she talked.
"I want my address book," she went on, hurriedly. "I've looked all over for it, and it's gone. Did the detective take it?"
"I think he did," I replied, remembering Lowney's search.
"Can't you get it back for me?"
"Look here, child, what do you think I am? A magician?"
"No, but I thought you could manage somehow to get it," her voice showed the adorable petulance that distinguished Vicky Van; "and then, you could send it to me—"
"Where?" I cried, eagerly. "Where shall I address you?"
"I can't tell you that. But you can bring it here and leave it in theChinese jar, and I will get it."
"How do you come in and go out of this house without being seen?" I demanded. "By the area door?"
"Perhaps so," and she spoke lightly. "And perhaps by a window, and maybe by means of an aeroplane and down through the skylight."
"Not that," I said, "the skylight is fastened on the inside, and has been ever since—ever since that night."
"Well, then I don't come that way. But if you'll get that book and put it in the big vase, I'll come and get it. When will it be there?"
"You're crazy to think I can get it," I returned, slowly, "but if I can I will. Give me a few days—"
"A week, if you like. Shall we say a week from to-night?"
"Next Monday? Yes. If I can get it at all, I can have it by then. How shall I let you know?"
"You needn't let me know, for I know now you will get it. Steal it from Mr. Lowney, if you can't get it otherwise."
"But if Fleming Stone is on your trail, will you come for the book?"
"I must," she spoke gravely. "I must have the book. It means everything to me. Imusthave it!"
"Then you shall, if I can manage it. It is your book, it has proved of no value as evidence, you may as well have it."
"Yes, I may as well have it. And now, Mr. Calhoun, will you go, please, or do you intend to turn me over to the police?"
"Vicky!" I cried, "how can you say such a thing? Of course I'll go, if you bid me. But let me wait a minute. You know you wrote to Ruth Schuyler—"
"Ruth? Is that one of the old sisters?"
"No. Ruth is the widow."
"Oh, yes, I wrote to her. I didn't know her first name. I wrote because I thought it was she who is making the desperate search for me, and I hoped I could influence her to stop it. That's all. I have no interest in Randolph Schuyler's widow, except as she affects my future, but can you do anything by working in the other direction? I mean can you dissuade Fleming Stone from coming, by asking him not to? You can bribe him perhaps—I have money—"
"Oh, I doubt if I could do anything like that. But I'll try, I'll try every way I can, and, if I succeed—how shall I let you know?"
"Oh, I'll know. If he takes up the matter, it will probably get into the papers, and if I see nothing of it, I'll conclude you succeeded."
"But I—I want to see you again, Vicky—"
"Oh, no, you don't. Why, you don't know this minute but what I stabbed that man, and—"
"You didn't, Vicky—tell me you didn't!"
"I can't tell you that. I can't tell you anything. I am the most miserable girl on God's earth!" and I heard tears in Vicky's voice, and a sob choked her utterance.
"Now go," she said, after a moment, "I can't stand any more. Please go, and do what you can for me, without getting yourself into trouble. Go, and don't look back to see how I make my exit, will you?"
"Indeed, I won't do that. Your confidences are safe with me, Vicky, and I will do all in my power to help you, in any way I can."
"Then go now," she said, and a gentle pressure of her hand on my arm urged me toward the door.
I went without another word, and neither while in the street, nor after gaining my own house, did I look back for another glimpse of Vicky Van.
And yet, try as I would, maneuver as I might, I couldn't prevent the arrival of Fleming Stone.
The Schuyler sisters were determined to have the great detective, and though Mrs. Schuyler wasn't so anxious, yet she raised not the slightest objection, and after some persuasion, Stone agreed to take the case.
I was present at his first call to discuss details and was immensely interested in my first sight of the man.
Tall, well-formed, and of a gravely courteous manner, he impressed me as the most magnetically attractive man I had ever seen. His iron-gray hair and deep-set, dark eyes gave him a dignity that I had never before associated with my notions of a detective.
The Schuyler sisters were frankly delighted with him.
"I know you'll run down the murderer of my brother," Miss Rhoda exulted, while Miss Sarah began to babble volubly of what she called clues and evidence.
Fleming Stone listened politely, now and then asking a direct question and sometimes turning to Ruth Schuyler for further information.
As I watched him closely, it occurred to me that he really paid little attention to what the women said, he was more engaged in scanning their faces and noting their attitudes. Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought he was sizing up their characters and their sympathies, and intended looking up his clues and evidence by himself.
"The first thing to do," he declared, at last, "is to find Miss VanAllen."
This was what I had feared, and remembering my promise to Vicky I said, "I think that will be impossible, Mr. Stone. She wrote she was leaving New York forever."
"But a householder like that can't go away forever," Stone said, "she must look after her goods and chattels, and she must pay her rent—"
"No, she owns the house."
"Must pay the taxes, then. Must sell it, or rent it or do something with it."
"It would seem so," I agreed. "And yet, if one is wanted for murder one would sacrifice household goods and the house itself in order to escape being caught."
"True," and Stone nodded his head. "But, still, I fancy she would return for something. Few women could leave their home like that, and not have some valuables or some secret papers or something for which they must return. I venture to say Miss Van Allen has already been back to her house, more than once, on secret errands."
Was the man a clairvoyant? How could he know that Vicky had done this very thing? But I realized at once, that he knew it, not from cognizance of facts, but from his prescience of what would necessarily follow in such a case.
"She has her keys, of course?" he asked.
"The police have charge of the keys," I said, a little lamely.
"I know," Stone said, impatiently, "but there are doubtless more keys than the ones they have. I should say, that Miss Van Allen took at least the key of one door with her, however hurried her flight."
"It may be so," I conceded. "But, granting she has been back and forth on the errands you suggest, it is not likely she will keep it up."
"No, it is not. And especially if she learns I am on the case."
"How could she know that?" Ruth Schuyler asked.
"I'm sure Miss Van Allen is a most clever and ingenious young woman," Stone replied, "and I feel sure she knows all that is going on. She gets information from the papers, and, too, she has that dependable maid, Julie. That woman, probably disguised, can do much in the way of getting information as to how matters are progressing. You see, I've followed the case all the way along, and the peculiarities and unique conditions of it are what induced me to take it up."
"Shall we offer a reward, Mr. Stone, for the discovery of the hiding place of Miss Van Allen?" asked Rhoda, eagerly. "I want to use every possible means of finding her."
"Not yet, Miss Schuyler. Let us try other plans first. But I must enjoin utter secrecy about my connection with the matter. Not the fact that I am at work on it, but the developments or details of my work. It is a most unusual, a most peculiar case, and I must work unimpeded by outside advice or interference. I may say, I've never known of a case which presented such extraordinary features, and features which will either greatly simplify or greatly impede my progress."
"Just what do you mean by that last remark, Mr. Stone?" asked RuthSchuyler, who had been listening intently.
"I mean that the absolutely mysterious disappearance of the young woman will either be of easy and simple solution, or else it will prove an insoluble mystery. There will be no half-way work about it. If I can't learn the truth in a short time, I fear I never can."
"How strange," said I. "Do you often feel thus about the beginning of a case?"
"Very rarely, almost never. And never have I felt it so strongly as in this instance. To trace that girl is not a matter of long and patient search, it's rather a question of a bit of luck or a slight slip on her part, or—well—of some coincidence or chance discovery that will clear things at one flash."
"Then you're depending on luck?" exclaimed Rhoda, in a disappointed tone.
"Oh, not that," and Stone smiled. "At least, I'm not depending entirely on that. If luck comes my way, so much the better. And now, please let me see the notes Miss Van Allen has written."
None was available, however, except the one to Ruth Schuyler. For the one to Randolph Schuyler was in Lowney's possession, and the one I had had from Vicky, and which was even then in my pocket, I had no intention of showing.
It was not necessary, however, for Fleming Stone said one was enough to gather all that he could learn from her chirography.
He studied it attentively, but only for a moment. Then he said, "A characteristic penmanship, but to me it only shows forcefulness, ingenuity and good nature. However, I'm not an expert, I only get a general impression, and the traits I've mentioned are undoubtedly to be found in the lady's nature. Are they not?" and he turned to me, as to one who knew.
"They are," I replied, "so far as I know Miss Van Allen. But my acquaintance with her is limited, and I can only agree superficially."
Stone eyed me closely, and I began to feel a little uncomfortable under his gaze. Clearly, I'd have to tell the truth, or incur his suspicion. Nor did I wish to prevaricate. I felt friendly toward poor little Vicky, and yet, I had no mind to run counter to the interest of Ruth Schuyler. The two sisters I didn't worry about, and indeed, they could look out for themselves. But Ruth Schuyler was in a position to demand justice, and if that justice accused Vicky Van, I must be honest and fair to both in my testimony.
Fleming Stone proceeded to question the women, more definitely and concisely now, and by virtue of his marvellous efficiency, he so shaped his inquiries, that he learned details with accuracy and rapidity.
It would never have occurred to me to ask the questions that he put, but as he went on, I saw their pertinence and value.
With Ruth's permission he called several of the servants and asked them a few things. Nothing of moment transpired, to my mind, but Stone was interested in a full account of where each servant was and what he was doing on the night of the murder. Each gave a straightforward and satisfactory account, and I realized that Stone was only getting a sense of the household atmosphere, and its relations to Mr. Schuyler himself.
Tibbetts, the middle-aged maid of Ruth Schuyler, told of the shock to her mistress when the news was brought.
"Mrs. Schuyler had retired," said Tibbetts, "at about ten o'clock, Mr. Schuyler was out, and was not expected home until late. I attended her, and after she was in bed, I went to bed myself."
"I'm told you do not live here," commented Stone, though in a disinterested way, and at the same time making notes of some other matters in his notebook.
"I have a room around on Third Avenue," replied Tibbetts. "I like a little home of my own, and when Mrs. Schuyler permits me, I go 'round there to sleep, and sometimes I go in the daylight hours. But on that night I happened to be staying here."
"Tibbetts is rather a privileged character," interposed Ruth. "She has been with me for many years, and as she likes a little place of her own, I adopted the plan of which she has told you."
"But that night you were here?" said Stone, to the maid.
"Yes, sir. I slept in Mrs. Schuyler's dressing room, as I always do when I'm here. Then when Jepson told me the—the awful news, I awoke Mrs. Schuyler and told her."
"Yes," said Stone. "I read all about that in the inquest report."
"Now," said Fleming Stone, after he had learned all he desired from the Schuyler household, "now, if you please, I would like to go over the Van Allen house. You have the keys, Mr. Calhoun?"
"I have a latchkey to the street door." I replied, "the rooms are not locked."
I don't know why exactly, but I hated to have him go through Vicky Van's house. Of course, it must have been because she had begged me not to let Stone get into the case at all. But I hadn't been able to prevent that, the two Schuyler sisters being determined to have him. And I had no desire to impede justice or stand in the way of law and order, but, somehow or other, I felt the invasion of Vicky's home would bring about trouble for the girl, and my mind was filled with vague foreboding.
"We will go with you," announced Miss Rhoda. "I've wanted to see that house from the first. You'll go, Ruth?"
"Oh, no," and Ruth Schuyler shrank at the idea. "I've no wish to see the place where my husband was killed! How could you think of it? If I could do any good by going—"
"No, Mrs. Schuyler," said Fleming Stone, "you could do no good, and I quite understand why you would rather not go. The Misses Schuyler and Mr. Calhoun will accompany me, and we will start at once."
"Can't I go?" asked Winnie, who had come in recently, "I'm just crazy to see that house. You don't mind my going, do you, Ruth?"
"No, indeed, child. I'm perfectly willing."
Mr. Stone raised no objection, so Winnie went with us.
It was nearly five o'clock, full daylight, though the dusk was just beginning to fall. We went round to Vicky Van's and I opened the door for the party to enter.
The house had begun to show disuse. There was dust on the shining surfaces of the furniture and on the polished floors. The clocks had all stopped and the musty chill of a closed house was in the atmosphere.
"Ugh!" cried Winnie, "what a creepy feeling! And this house is too pretty to be so neglected! Why, it's a darling house. Look at that heavenly color scheme!"
Winnie had darted into the living-room, with its rose and gray appointments, and we all followed her.
"Don't touch anything, Miss Calhoun," cautioned Stone, and Win contented herself with gazing about, her hands clasped behind her.
The Schuyler sisters sniffed, and though they said little, they conveyed the idea that to their minds the bijou residence savored of reprehensible frivolity.
Fleming Stone lived up to his reputation as a detective, and scrutinized everything with quick, comprehensive glances. We went through the long living-room, and into the dining-room, whose pale green and silver again enchanted Winnie.
"The walls are exquisite," Stone agreed, looking closely at the panels of silk brocade, framed with a silver tracery.
"If walls have ears, they must burn at your praise," I said, in an effort to speak lightly, for Stone's face had an ominous look, as if he were learning grave truths.
"Walls not only have ears, they have tongues," he returned. "These walls have already told me much of Miss Van Allen's character."
"Oh, how?" cried Winnie, "do tell us how you deduce and all that!"
I looked hastily at Stone, thinking he might be annoyed by Winnie's volatile speech.
But he said kindly, "To the trained eye, Miss Calhoun, much is apparent that escapes the casual observer. But you can understand that the taste displayed in the wall decoration, shows a refined and cultured nature. A woman of the adventuress type would prefer more garish display. Of course, I am generalizing, but there is much to bear me out. Then, I see, by certain tiny marks and cracks, that these walls have lately been done over, and that they were also redecorated another time not long before. This proves that Miss Van Allen has money enough to gratify her whims and she chooses to spend it in satisfying her aesthetic preferences. Further, the walls have been carefully cared for, showing an interested and capable housekeeperly instinct and traits of extreme orderliness and tidiness. Cleverness, even, for here, you see, is a place, where a bit of the plaster has been defaced by a knock or scratch, and it has been delicately painted over with a little pale green paint which matches exactly. It is not the work of a professional decorator, so reason tells me that probably Miss Van Allen herself remedied the defect."
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Winnie, "I can see all that myself, now you tell me, but I never should have thought of it! Tell me more."
"Then the pictures, which are so well chosen and placed, that they seem part of the walls, are, as you notice, all figure pieces. There are no landscapes. This, of course, means that Miss Van Allen is not distinctly a nature lover, but prefers humanity and society. This argues for the joy of living and the appreciation of mental pleasures and occupations. No devotee of nature would have failed to have pictures of flowers or harmonizing landscapes on these walls. So, you see, to be edified by the tongues of walls, you must not only listen to them but understand their language."
And then Stone began taking in the rest of the dining-room's contents. The table, hastily cleared by the caterer's men, was empty of the china and glass which they had supplied, but still retained the candlesticks and epergnes that were Vicky Van's own. These were of plated silver, not sterling, which fact Stone noted. The lace-trimmed linen, however, was of the finest and most elaborate sort.
"An unholy waste of money!" declared Rhoda Schuyler, looking at the marvellous monogram of V. V. A. embroidered on the napkins.
But I gazed sadly at the table, only partially dismantled, which had been so gaily decked for Vicky's birthday supper.
Scanning the sideboard, Stone remarked the absence of the small carving knife. I told him I, too, had observed that, and that I had made search for it.
"Did you ask the caterer's people if they took it by mistake?" said the detective.
"No," I admitted, ashamed that I hadn't thought of it, and I promised to do so.
As Stone stood, silently contemplating the place where Randolph Schuyler had met his death, I stepped out into the hall. I had no conscious reason for doing so, but I did, and chancing to glance toward the stairs, I with difficulty repressed an exclamation.
For half-way up the staircase, I saw Vicky Van!
I was sure it was no hallucination, I positively saw her! She was leaning over the banister, listening to what Stone was saying. Suddenly, even as I looked, she ran upstairs and disappeared.
Was she safe? Could she escape? Perhaps by a back staircase, or could she manage to elude us and slip away somehow?
Then I was conscience-stricken. Was I conniving at the escape of a guilty person? Did I want to do this? I didn't know. Something told me I must tell Stone of her presence, and yet something else made it impossible for me to do so.
I turned back to the dining-room, and Miss Sarah was saying, "That'sthe spot, then, that's where Randolph was killed by that awful woman!Mr. Stone youmustget her! An eye for an eye—a life for a life!She must pay the penalty of her guilt!"
Winnie was listening, and tears stood in her eyes. Like Ruth Schuyler, from whom she doubtless took a cue, Win wasn't so ready to condemn Vicky Van unheard, as the two sisters were. She looked steadily at Fleming Stone, as if expecting him to produce Vicky then and there, and I quivered with the thought of what would happen if he knew that even at that moment Vicky was under the same roof with ourselves!
But Stone completed his survey of the dining-room, and as a matter of course, started next up the stairs. I pushed ahead a little, in my eagerness to precede him, but a vague desire to protect Vicky urged me on. I stood in the upper hall as the rest came up, and I imagined that Stone gave me a curious glance as he noted my evident embarrassment.
But Winnie dashed into the music room, and the Schuyler sisters quickly followed. Trust a woman to feel and show curiosity about her neighbor's home!
Again Stone examined the walls, but the immaculate white and gold sides of the music room said nothing intelligible to me, and if they spoke to him he did not divulge the message. The women exclaimed at the beautiful room, and, as Stone's examination here was short, we all filed back to Vicky's bedroom.
I heard no sound of her, and I breathed more freely, as we did not find her in bedroom or in the boudoir beyond. She had, then, succeeded in getting away, and trusted to me not to betray her presence there.
The boudoir or dressing-room, all pink satin and white enameled wicker called forth new exclamations from Winnie, and even Rhoda Schuyler expressed a grudging admiration.
"Itisbeautiful," she conceded. "I wish Ruth had come, after all. She loves this sort of furniture. Don't you remember, Sarah, she wanted Randolph to do up her dressing-room in wicker?"
"Yes, but he didn't like it, he said it was gim-crackery. And theCircassian walnut of Ruth's room is much handsomer."
"Of course it is. Ruth has a charming suite. Oh, do look at the dresses!"
Fleming Stone had flung open a wardrobe door, and the costumes disclosed, though not numerous, were of beautiful coloring and design. Winnie, unable to resist the temptation, fingered them lovingly, and called my attention to certain wonderful confections.
"What did she wear the night of the crime?" Stone asked, and I told him. Having Win for a sister, I am fairly good at describing women's clothes, and I drew a vivid word picture of Vicky's gold fringed gown.
"Heavenly!" exclaimed Winnie, although she had had me describe the gown to her on the average of twice a day for a week. "I wish I could see it! Some day, Chet, I'm going to have one like it."
"Fringe?" said Stone, curiously, "do women wear fringe nowadays?"
"Oh, yes," I responded. "But it was a long fringe of gilt beads that really formed an overdress to the tulle skirt. Stay, I've a piece of it," and I took out my pocketbook. "See, here it is. I found it caught in those gilded leaves at the lower corner of the mirror frame—that long dressing-mirror."
They all looked at the mirror, which hung flat against the wall; its foliated Florentine frame full of irregular protuberances.
"Of course," said Winnie, nodding her head, "I know just how she stood in front of it, whirling around to see her gown from all sides, like this." Win whirled herself around, before the glass, and succeeded in catching a bit of her own full skirt on the frame.
"You little goose!" I cried, as the fabric tore, "we don't need a demonstration at the expense of your frock!"
Fleming Stone was studying the strand of gold fringe. It was composed of tiny beads, of varying shapes, and had already begun to ravel into shreds.
"I'll keep this," he said, and willy-nilly, I lost my little souvenir of Vicky Van. But, of course, if he considered it evidence, I had to give it up, and the fact of doing so, partly salved my conscience of its guilty feeling at concealing the fact of Vicky's presence in her own house just then.
And, too, I said to myself, Mr. Stone is out to find her. Surely a detective of his calibre can accomplish that without help of an humble layman! So I kept my own counsel, and further search, of the next story, and later, of the basement rooms, gave no hint of Vicky's presence or departure.
Indeed, I began to wonder if I had really seen her. Could she have been so clearly in my mind, that I visualized her in a moment of clairvoyance? My reason rebelled at this, for I knew I saw her, as well as I knew I was alive. She had on the same little hat in which I had last seen her. She had on no cloak, and her tailor-made street dress was of a dark cloth. I couldn't be sure how she got away, for the basement door we found bolted on the inside, but she must have warily evaded and eluded us and slipped here and there as we pursued our course through the house, and then have gone out by the front door when we were, say, on the upper floors.
Returning to Vicky's boudoir, where her little writing-desk was,Fleming Stone began to run over the letters and papers therein.
It was locked, but he picked the flimsy fastening and calmly took up the task with his usual quick-moving, efficient manner.
I stayed with him, and the three women wandered back over the house again. He ran through letters with glancing quickness, flipped over sheafs of bills, and examined pens, ink and paper.
"There's so much that's characteristic about a desk," he said, as he observed the penwiper, stamps, pin-tray, and especially the pencils. "Indeed, I feel now that I know Miss Van Allen as well, if not better than you do yourself, Mr. Calhoun."
"In that case, then, you can't believe her guilty," I flashed back, for the very atmosphere of the dear little room made me more than ever Vicky's friend.
"But you see," and he spoke a bit sadly, "what I know of her is the real woman. I can't be deceived by her wiles and coquetries. I see only the actual traces of her actual self."
I knew what he meant, and there was some truth in it. For Vicky was a mystery, and I was not by any means sure, that she didn't hoodwink us when she chose to. Much as I liked and admired the girl, I was forced to believe she was not altogether disingenuous. And she was clever enough to hoodwink anybody. But if Stone's deductions were to be depended on, they were doubtless true evidence.
"Is she guilty?" I sighed.
"I can't say that, yet, but I've found nothing that absolutely precludes her guilt. On the contrary, I've found things, which if she is guilty, will go far toward proving it."
This sounded a bit enigmatical, but Stone was so serious, that I grasped his general meaning and let it go at that.
"I mean," he said, divining my thoughts, "that things may or may not be evidence according to the guilt or innocence of the suspect. If you find a little boy in the pantry beside an empty jampot, you suspect him of stealing jam. Now, if lots of other circumstances prove that child did take the jam, the empty pot is evidence. But, if circumstances develop that convince you the child did not have any jam whatever, that day, then the jampot is no evidence at all."
"And you have found empty jampots?" I asked.
"I have. But, so far, I'm not sure that they are condemnatory evidence. Though, in justice to my own work, I must add, that they have every appearance of being so."
"You already like Vicky Van, then," I said, quickly, moved to do so, by a certain note of regret in his voice.
"No man could help liking a woman who possesses her traits. She has delightful taste and tastes. She is most charitable, her accounts show sums wisely expended on worthy charities. And letters from friends prove her a truly loyal and lovable character."
"Such a girlcouldn'tkill a man!" I broke out.
"Don't say that. There is no one incapable of crime. But such a nature would require very strong provocation and desperate conditions. These granted, it is by no means impossible. Now, I am through for to-day, but, if you please I will keep the key of the house. As the case is now in my hands, you will not object?"
"No," I said, a little reluctantly. For suppose Vicky should give me another commission or ask me to perform another errand in the house.
"You have a transparent face, Mr. Calhoun," and Fleming Stone smiled quizzically. "Why do you want to keep the key?"
"My aunt is most desirous of seeing this house," I deliberately prevaricated, "and I thought—"
But I didn't deceive the astute detective. "No, that isn't it," he said, quietly. "I'm not sure, but I think you are in touch with Miss Van Allen."
"And if I am?" I flared up.
"Very well," he returned, "it is, as you imply, none of my business. But I want to know your attitude, and if it is antagonistic to my work, I am sorry, but I will conduct my course accordingly."
"Mr. Stone," I confessed, "I am not antagonistic, but I do know a little about Miss Van Allen's movements that I haven't told. I cannot see that it would assist you in any way to know it—"
"That's enough," and Fleming Stone spoke heartily. "Your assurance of that is sufficient. Now, are we working together?"
I hesitated. Then I suddenly thought of Ruth Schuyler. I owed her a business fealty, and somehow I liked to feel that I also owed her a personal allegiance, and both these demanded my efforts to avenge the death of her husband, irrespective of where the blow might fall.
So I said, honestly, "We are, Mr. Stone. I will help you, if I can, and if at any time I think my withheld information will help you, I will make it known. Is that satisfactory?"
"Entirely so," and the handshake that Stone gave me was like a signed and sealed bond, to which I tacitly but none the less truthfully subscribed.