OUT OF THE MAZE

Inspector Mitchell gazed at Mrs. Hull as if he thought her demented.

“You! You killed John Meredith!” he gasped, as the others listened in petrified silence.

“Yes.” Mrs. Hull unconsciously tightened her grasp on David Curtis’ hand. His firm clasp helped her to keep her self-control. “But I did not intentionally stab him. It was an accident.”

Lucille walked unsteadily over to her mother. “Dearest,” she stammered. “You must be mad!” Then as she caught Mrs. Hull’s pathetic, pleading eyes, she turned in sudden frenzy to Coroner Penfield. “I tell you she is mad—mad, and unaccountable for what she is saying.”

“Hush, Lucille, be quiet, dear.” Mrs. Hull turned in appeal to Leonard McLane. “Calm her, doctor, until I finish what I have to say.”

McLane led the unstrung, half frantic girl out of the library, the startled servants making way for them. As they reached the door Gerald Armstrong tried to stop Lucille, but on meeting her look of loathing he cowered back and covered his face with his shaking hands.

Sam Hollister, recovering somewhat from his stupor, brought up a chair for Mrs. Hull.

“Sit down,” he said. “You look utterly spent”

With murmured thanks she sank down just as Anne approached and, dropping on her knees, put her arms around Mrs. Hull.

“Excuse me, Coroner Penfield.” Mrs. Hull had some difficulty in controlling her voice, as she blinked away the tears which persisted in filling her eyes and half blinding her. “And you also, Inspector Mitchell. Have a little patience and I will tell you my unhappy story of Sunday night, and then go with you.” She sighed deeply.

“My husband has met with financial reverses during the past two months,” she went on. “I knew something of his affairs, but he did not take me entirely into his confidence. It was about midnight on Sunday, Julian had retired early and I was about to go upstairs, when Gerald came to see me and told me that their firm was virtually ruined. He suggested that I see John Meredith and ask his aid.

“I am a home body, and starting again at the bottom, with a small house, little money and no servants held no particular terrors for me, but as I thought of my husband and his pride in his business integrity; Lucille, accustomed to every luxury, and her social ambitions; and of the people who had trusted my husband and who might be ruined through his bankruptcy, I pocketed my pride and told Gerald that I would see John.” Mrs. Hull paused, then continued more slowly:

“Gerald said that I must go to Ten Acres immediately, in spite of the hour; that unless he had a check for fifty thousand dollars, or its equivalent in cash, the firm could not open its doors on Monday morning.” Again Mrs. Hull sighed. “I believed him and he brought me out in his car. It was after midnight and Gerald admitted me into the house through the north door, to which he had a latch key. He would not come upstairs, but told me that he had tied a piece of twine to John’s door knob so that I could make no mistake in the room.”

“But why all this secrecy?” demanded Mitchell. “Why didn’t you telephone and make an appointment for the next morning?”

“Because I knew that my husband and John were not on good terms,” she responded. “They had had a dispute a week before. I was not sure that my husband would approve of my asking a favor of John, nor was I at all sure that John would see me if I asked for an appointment. I knew John’s habit of reading in bed half the night.” She hesitated and looked at Penfield. “May I have a glass of water?”

There was a pause as Damason dashed out of the room, to return an instant later, goblet in hand. Mrs. Hull drank thirstily, then, returning the empty glass, she laid her hand on Anne’s shoulder as the girl knelt beside her.

“I found John Meredith sitting up in bed, with a dressing gown thrown over his shoulders, reading. My unexpected appearance astounded him. He heard what I had to say very patiently, then slipping his hand under his pillow, drew out a key.

“‘I have about one hundred thousand dollars in cash in my safe here,’ he said. ‘I intended to reinvest it, but will gladly accommodate Julian with a loan to tide him over. Will fifty thousand be sufficient?’” Mrs. Hull paused, overcome by emotion, and the others waited in silence for her to continue.

“In my nervousness, while explaining my errand to John, I had picked up a sharp knife which lay on the open book by his side, and which he had evidently used to cut its leaves.” Mrs. Hull stopped, her eyes darkened in horror, as in imagination she lived the scene over again. “I have a malady of the heart, and the suspense and John’s generous promise of financial aid proved too great a tax. My head swam, I felt myself reeling forward—I had remained standing—and threw out my left hand, in which I still grasped the knife. John looked up, jerked back his head and held up his hands to catch me. I swayed toward him, my left hand swept downward and the knife slashed his throat.” Mrs. Hull broke down utterly. When she looked up Curtis was holding a glass to her lips.

“Drink this,” he coaxed, and she obediently swallowed the powerful stimulant.

“I am almost through my story, gentlemen,” she gasped. “The horror of what I had done brought me to my senses and I fled from the room, intending to get assistance. I ran down the hall, made the wrong turning, and becoming completely confused went down the back stairs and from there into the reception hall. I still carried the knife. In a revulsion of feeling I threw it in one of the fern boxes and going to the north door, slipped outside and over to Gerald’s motor, parked near the entrance to Ten Acres.”

“Was Armstrong waiting in the car for you?” asked Curtis quickly.

“No. I had just strength enough to climb into the car and then I must have fainted,” answered Mrs. Hull. “When I came to myself we were almost home. Julian was in his room sound asleep and no one heard me.” With an effort she got to her feet and loosened Anne’s tender clasp. “That is all,” she stated. “But please do not think me utterly despicable—I never knew until just now that Anne was suspected of killing her uncle, or I would have given myself up to the police.”

“Cousin Claire, it was an accident,” declared Anne loyally. “Surely, Inspector Mitchell, you cannot charge Mrs. Hull with murder?”

Mitchell shook his head. “Mrs. Hull must come with me to Headquarters and tell her story to the authorities. There’s manslaughter to consider—”

“Wait!” Curtis’ imperative tones interrupted the inspector. “Before you proceed further—” In his earnestness Curtis drew a step nearer and stumbled over a footstool. He involuntarily flung out his hand and caught hold of the person standing by him. “Mrs. Hull, the wound which you accidentally inflicted did not cause John Meredith’s death.”

A cry broke from Mrs. Hull and she swayed on her feet, while the others in the room gazed at the blind surgeon in stupefied silence.

“I assisted at the post-mortem examination,” continued Curtis, speaking with slow distinctness. “My fingers are my eyes and they detected a superficial downward gash on Meredith’s throat just above the point where the larger blood vessels were severed.”

Mrs. Hull hung on his words, her agonized expression giving place to one of dawning hope.

“I didn’t kill John—thank God! Oh, thank God!” she gasped. “Doctor, you mean—?”

“That when you fled in terrified horror from the bedroom pursued by Meredith, he was followed by a witness of the scene. This witness,” Curtis turned his head slowly, his sightless eyes sweeping the room, “caught up with Meredith as the latter fell, half unconscious, at the head of the staircase, and bending down cut Meredith’s throat.”

In the tense silence Anne heard her mother’s sudden intake of breath. Turning slightly she saw that Mrs. Meredith sat watching Curtis in deadly fascination, unconscious apparently that her fingers were twitching convulsively about her scented handkerchief. Inspector Mitchell’s aggressive voice brought Anne’s attention back to the others.

“Who was this witness?” he demanded.

“The man who planned the interview—Gerald Armstrong.”

As his name was pronounced Armstrong strove to wrench his wrist from Curtis’ iron grasp.

“You lie, d—mn you; you lie!” he stammered, through lips grown white and shaking. “You have no proof—”

“Tut! your face gives you away,” declared Mitchell, pointing to Armstrong’s convulsed features as the latter cowered back at his approach. “Let go, Doctor Curtis.”

Slowly Curtis released his hold. “Your pulse betrayed your emotion, Armstrong, when I announced that I knew there were two wounds on Meredith’s throat,” he stated. “Believing yourself entirely safe from suspicion after Mrs. Hull’s confession, the shock was more than your nerves could stand.”

“It’s a lie—a lie—” Armstrong reiterated through dry lips as his hunted gaze swept the room. His sudden dash for the library window was blocked by Detective Sergeant Brown and the uplifted razor was knocked from his hand. A minute more and he stood staring stupidly at a pair of handcuffs dangling from his wrists.

“A handy weapon,” exclaimed Brown, picking it up. “So the razor did the trick as far as Meredith was concerned, eh, Armstrong?”

A snarling curse was Armstrong’s only answer as he collapsed in a chair.

Before Curtis could speak, Anne turned and faced Coroner Penfield.

“I did go to Uncle John’s room late Sunday night,” she said. “Mother had told me of his plan to have me marry Doctor Curtis.” She avoided looking at Curtis. “And I went to ask him to reconsider. At first Uncle John was very bitter and said many harsh things,” she hesitated and colored painfully as she met her mother’s unfriendly glance. “Years ago when they first went into business, my father and Uncle John were junior partners in the firm of ‘Turner and Waterman’ stockbrokers—”

An exclamation from Curtis interrupted her. “The firm failed,” he said, “and my father, Dan Curtis, who had intrusted his financial affairs to it, went down in the crash. He committed suicide—”

“So Uncle John told me,” admitted Anne softly. “He said my father as well as he had never gotten over his tragic death. They tried vainly to locate your mother and aid her financially, but she—”

“Returned to her parents in Canada,” interjected Curtis. “I was brought up in the wilds of the far Northwest and taught by the trappers not to depend upon sight alone, but to use my hearing and my reasoning faculties to gauge my sense of direction. It has proved invaluable training for my present condition,” touching his sightless eyes. “Shortly after my mother’s death I went to McGill Institute and worked my way through college. The rest of my career you already know.”

“Uncle John learned of your parentage and went at once to Walter Reed Hospital,” went on Anne. “He took an instant liking to you and invited you here.” Again Anne’s white cheeks crimsoned. “He hit upon the plan of our marriage as an act of restitution.”

“Very thoughtful of him,” remarked Mrs. Meredith dryly, feeling that she had been in the background quite long enough. Her sensations at the rapid progress of events had been beyond speech. “Continue your story, Anne.”

“I left Uncle John in anger.” Anne’s voice was slightly husky, the emotional strain was telling upon her. “But I could not sleep. I felt that I must tell him that I agreed to his plan.” She bit her lip and partly turned her back on Curtis. “As I got to his room I met Uncle John and his ghastly appearance horrified me. Staggering past me, he thrust a key into my hand, saying in a whisper: ‘Keep this, Anne.’ But in pronouncing my name his voice rose, as he added: ‘I’ve caught you, you devil.’ Ruffles, the parrot, took up his cry as Uncle John disappeared up the dimly lighted corridor. Completely dazed by the situation, I hesitated, then started to follow him, when a handkerchief was thrust under my nose and I was carried into Uncle John’s bedroom—”

“By Gerald Armstrong,” stated Curtis. He turned in the direction of the silent figure hunched in a chair. “Why did you use Anne’s handkerchief to chloroform her?”

Armstrong stirred and glanced up in sullen rage. His evident intention of not answering was changed by Brown’s peremptory tug at the handcuffs.

“The handkerchief, as well as Meredith’s razor, was lying by a bottle of chloroform on Meredith’s bureau near the window by which I entered,” he admitted, squirming about in his seat so as to avoid Mrs. Hull’s gaze. “I thought Anne had seen me in her uncle’s bedroom. As she lost consciousness I raced down the hall and caught Meredith”—he sucked in his breath and a shudder shook him—“never mind the details. I got back to the bedroom—”

“And chloroformed the parrot also?” asked Curtis.

“Yes. I was afraid the infernal bird would awaken the household. I had overheard Mrs. Hull’s interview with Meredith, having slipped up the back stairs to my bedroom and from there along the balcony to Meredith’s open window. I heard him speak of the money in the safe and went in to get the key of his secret compartment as he staggered into the hall, evidently in pursuit of Mrs. Hull. It came to me in a flash that if I took the money Mrs. Hull would be suspected, and, God! how I needed money!” His voice rose and cracked. “I knew our firm was going to the wall and with one hundred thousand dollars in cash I could get out of the country. I searched Meredith’s body”—another shudder shook Armstrong and he drew his coat sleeve across his forehead to wipe away the beads of moisture—“then I searched his bedroom. Where did you conceal the key, Anne?”

“In the cuff of my dressing gown,” answered Anne. “When I regained consciousness my one idea was to follow Uncle John, and I went down the corridor and found his body.” She looked at Penfield. “I did catch my hair in that button, trying to find out if Uncle John was alive. And later you caught me trying to remove the hair.”

“Why didn’t you take me into your confidence?” asked Penfield, and at his tone of kindly solicitude Anne’s eyes filled with tears.

“I was afraid,” she admitted. “I realized that you suspected me of killing Uncle John and I did not know how to clear myself.”

“One more question,” and Penfield closed his notebook. “How did your fingerprints get on the scalpel?”

“I found the knife under the ferns and laid it back,” she explained. “I thought that Uncle John had gone out of his mind and killed himself and concluded he had thrown the knife through the banisters.”

Penfield rose and buttoned his sack coat. “I must congratulate you, Doctor Curtis, upon your clever handling of this case,” he said. “But for you Mrs. Hull would be under arrest, charged with a most heinous crime.”

Curtis could not see Mrs. Hull’s look of passionate gratitude.

“How can I express myself!” she began incoherently. “The mental anguish I have endured believing that I caused John’s death—Doctor, how can I thank you?”

“Don’t please!” Curtis begged in embarrassment. “I never suspected you. But I did think your daughter, Lucille, had been incited to rob Meredith and was guilty of the greater crime also. I had been told by Meredith that her engagement to Armstrong was an affair of long standing. He also told me that there were rumors in the city of the firm of ‘Hull and Armstrong’ being under financial stress, and that he was morally certain, although without proof, that it had been Armstrong’s crooked methods which threatened to swamp Colonel Hull.” Curtis paused and cleared his throat.

“When you told of having stabbed Meredith,” he continued, “I realized that such a gash, while it would bleed profusely, was not necessarily fatal, and my thoughts turned to Armstrong. He could have witnessed the scene unknown to you.” Curtis paused again. “I knew that he was standing here by me, and under pretense of keeping my balance, I held my fingers over his pulse as I tried out my theory.”

“Clever work, Doctor!” declared Inspector Mitchell admiringly. “But what put you on Miss Lucille Hull’s trail?”

“Gretchen’s statement to me this morning that Lucille was her ‘young Mees,’ and my recollection of the maid’s behavior at the inquest. Mrs. Hull’s voice is sometimes similar in intonation to that of her daughter, which accounts for Gretchen’s mistake in the identity of the woman under her window,” replied Curtis. “But it was Susanne who gave me a clue to the whereabouts of Meredith’s carefully concealed safe. I would like to speak to Susanne.”

“Monsieur, I am here.” And Susanne, who had been hovering in the back of the room, came forward.

“Why were you in Mr. Meredith’s bedroom?” asked Curtis. “And why were you on your knees?”

“If it please Monsieur,” began Susanne, twisting her apron in some embarrassment as she met Mrs. Meredith’s stern glance, “I heard Madame Meredith talk much to herself about a key and Monsieur John’s wealth being under lock and key in his room. So, Monsieur, I went early this morning to his old bedroom to look for zat key—to return it to Madame” with calm assurance. “And I search on my knees for eet.”

“I had the key until last night,” admitted Anne.

“When I took it from you—” broke in Curtis.

“You!” But Anne’s exclamation was drowned in a deeper cry from Armstrong.

“So you beat me to it!” he cried. “I followed Anne’s car, hoping for a chance to get it from her.”

“You were the masked man?” Light burst upon Anne as Curtis turned his head questioningly from one to the other.

“Yes. I drove by and parked my car on the left fork of the road when I saw you had stopped,” explained Armstrong. “I improvised a mask out of the lining of my coat. I suspected, Curtis, that Anne had given you the key, and was putting up a game of bluff when she claimed it was missing; so I used the monkey to see if you were awake before I entered your bedroom last night. You got a strangle hold on his paw, Curtis, and I took the only way of getting him free,” with an ugly glance at Jocko, sitting curled up in comparative comfort in the big armchair.

“Did you have the monkey in my room yesterday, Armstrong?”

“Non, Monsieur, it was I,” broke in Susanne. “I had carried him from Mademoiselle Anne’s bedroom. Jocko does not like ze parrot. He escape me down the corridor and run in your room. Before I get him he soil your counterpane and later I change it.” Leonard McLane, who had entered the library unobserved some moments before, smiled involuntarily.

“So much for that mystery,” he exclaimed. “What about the white hairs around the button on Meredith’s jacket, Curtis?”

“I saw Fernando an hour ago,” answered the blind surgeon. “He confessed that he had lied as to their color and stole them from my wallet, thinking to protect Anne. He admitted that you, Armstrong, cut the string from my door knob and intimidated him into lying about it. Fernando is not a courageous soul! He overheard your conversation with Jim Nolan, the notorious confidence man, alias Frank Elliott.”

Armstrong rose with such abruptness that he overturned his chair.

“I’m going,” he announced.

“With me,” and Detective Sergeant Brown was by his side, revolver in hand. Armstrong blanched and bit his lip. With shoulders sagging and head bent he accompanied Inspector Mitchell and Brown from the library. Escorted by the two men and Coroner Penfield, he slunk through the reception hall and out of the house, Susanne and Damason, their curiosity still unsatisfied, in their wake. Mrs. Hull, at a whispered word from McLane, also hurried from the room.

Curtis turned and took several restless steps up and down. He still had a most unpleasant duty to perform.

“Mrs. Meredith,” he began, pausing near her, “did you turn out the light in the corridor on Sunday night just after I discovered John Meredith’s dead body?”

“I did,” answered Anne, before her mother could reply. “I had some insane notion, after I found poor Uncle John, that I must slip back to my bedroom unseen, so I turned off the light. I met mother just at the entrance of our boudoir.”

“Wait, Anne, I have a confession to make.” Nothing could be more suave and apparently tranquil than Mrs. Meredith’s voice and manner. It had just occurred to her astute mind that the blind surgeon might be a person to propitiate. She saw Anne’s face of distress, Curtis’ slight, cynical smile, and met Leonard McLane’s questioning glance with supreme audacity. “I saw Doctor Curtis and Sam leave John’s bedroom and rush down the corridor. Much surprised by their conduct, I entered my brother-in-law’s bedroom. On the bed I saw several papers. I took the prenuptial agreement, Anne, that I might safeguard your interests—”

Anne turned deadly white. “Mother!”

“It is safely put away,” she went on, paying not the slightest attention to Anne. “When it is required I will produce it.”

“And the codicil to Meredith’s will,” stated Curtis swiftly. “You have that also—denial is useless,” as she attempted to speak. “Both documents must be given to Hollister to-day, madam. If you wish I will hand them to him with the one hundred thousand dollars in cash, the inference being that they were placed in the safe by Meredith.”

“Very well, I will give them to you, on condition—”

“No conditions, madam,” with stern emphasis. “I have no intention of pressing the subject further. So far as you are concerned, it will never be mentioned by me.”

“Nor by me,” was the audacious retort, as Mrs. Meredith swept by Curtis and left the room.

McLane broke the ensuing pause by walking over to the chair and lifting Jocko in his arms. “I’ll take care of this little fellow, Anne,” he said. “Lucille is resting quietly in her room with her mother and Gretchen is looking after her. Colonel Hull’s injury in his motor accident last night comprised a broken arm and a collar bone. I’ll see you both later,” and he discreetly vanished.

Curtis fumbled with his cane in unhappy silence. He had solved the problem surrounding John Meredith’s mysterious death, but like many another gratified desire it brought a bitter pang to his heart. He was in honor bound to release Anne from her promise to marry him. But how could he leave with his passionate love for her untold? Love had made no count of the hours of their short acquaintance. Anne had crept into his heart to be enshrined forever. Was it obligatory that he leave her in silence? The minutes lengthened as pride warred fiercely with love.

“Anne,” he stopped suddenly before where she sat, watching him with deep attention, “I cannot in honor hold you to your promise. Your uncle’s plan that we marry as an act of restitution was unjust to you. I honor you highly, I esteem your friendship—” He kept his voice calm by an effort of will. “Without a career, I feel that I have no right to ask you to share your life with me. I am not worthy—”

Worthy? Could mortal man be so blind? Was this calm, kindly friendship to be all that he could offer her starving heart? Her lonely childhood, her mother’s cruel neglect had reached their culmination. Was this man, who had protected her in her hour of need, who had won her heart by his chivalry and courage in the face of adversity, to pass out of her life? She raised her eyes, and had Curtis been able to read their longing appeal, his stubborn pride would have yielded.

Anne rose slowly to her feet and rested both hands upon his shoulders.

“Dave,” she whispered, with lips that trembled even as she smiled, “I can’t release you from your promise, because—” she faltered, “because—”

He was holding her in close embrace. At last barriers of false pride were set aside.

“My dear, dear Anne,” he stammered. “Tell me, sweetheart, because—”

“I love you,” and Anne, glancing shyly upward into his transfigured face, knew that she had reached her happy haven at last.