  Very discreetly Bobsy conducted his interview with Eugene Courtenay. The detective wanted to trap his man before he could realise any danger, so he called on him the morning after his talk with Steele. Courtenay was not a business man. He called himself a farmer, but his farming was of the fancy variety and was done almost entirely by expert gardeners. His place was not far from the Folly, and when Bobsy called, at about eleven o’clock, he was received courteously enough by the man he desired to see. “It’s this way, Mr. Courtenay,” said Bobsy, after a few preliminaries, “in the interests of law and justice, I want you to tell me a little more in detail the story you told at the inquest.” “There are no further details than those I related, Mr. Roberts. What have you learned that makes you think my testimony of sudden importance?” Clearly, this was not a man to be easily hoodwinked. Bobsy felt his way. “Not of sudden importance. But all testimony is important, and sometimes by elaboration it becomes illuminative.” “Good word, illuminative,” remarked Courtenay. “But I cannot help to shed light for you, I fear. Just what do you want to know?” Here was an opening. Bobsy accepted it as such. “At what time did you leave the Stannard house that night?” “I don’t know, really. One doesn’t note hours when not on business matters. It must have been between eleven and half-past. That’s as near as I can come to it. Why?” The last word was shot at him, and Bobsy almost jumped. “It is my duty to ask,” he said coolly. “At what time did you reach home? I suppose you don’t know that, either.” “I do not. But I didn’t come home at once——” “Yes, I know; you sat on a bench on the Folly lawn. Were you in evening togs, Mr. Courtenay?” “I was.” “Had you on a hat?” Eugene Courtenay started. But he answered at once: “Not a hat. I wore a cap over there. I often do when I go to a neighbour’s.” “And you had it on when you sat on the bench?” “Why, confound it, man. I don’t know! I suppose I did. No, let me see. I believe I was carrying it, and laid it on the bench beside me.” “And left it there?” Courtenay laughed a little self-consciously. “Yes, I did. I came nearly home before I thought of it. Then I went back and gathered it in. Why?” Again that direct, snapped-out question. “What was going on at the house when you went back?” “How should I know? After events prove that the tragedy in the studio was then being gone through with—but I had no idea of that at the time. I glanced at the house, of course. There was a light in the studio—in fact, lights over most of the house. I found my cap and came on home. Why?” “I’ll answer your whys, Mr. Courtenay. Because the police have reason to think your story is not entirely true. Because we think it was you, yourself, who turned off the studio light.” “Do I understand, Mr. Roberts, you mean that I—let us speak plainly—that I killed Eric Stannard?” “Did you, Mr. Courtenay?” “I refuse to answer such an absurd question! In the first place, I was out on the lawn, when the light went out.” “So you say. But who corroborates that?” “I was also out there when the light flashed on again.” “Yes, that may be true, but your first statement is not. You left Mrs. Stannard in the Billiard Room, you went into the studio—whether in the interim you had been out on the lawn or not, doesn’t matter—you stabbed Eric Stannard, you turned off the light, and returning through the Billiard Room, you went back to that bench, and awaited developments.” “You must be insane!” “Oh, no, I’m not insane. Neither were you. It was a clever dodge. You didn’t know the women would be implicated, but when they were, however you might regret that, you couldn’t confess your own guilt——” “Why couldn’t I?” “Because,” Bobsy looked squarely at him, “because you love Mrs. Stannard——” “Stop! Don’t you dare to speak her name! You mischief-maker! You absolute and unqualified——” “Stop, yourself, Mr. Courtenay! These heroics harm your case—they don’t help it.” “But it’s false! It isn’t true! I didn’t do it! I was——” “Yes?” “I was on that bench all the time, till I went home——” “Did you see any one, any servant or gardener, perhaps, who can vouch for your story?” “No—I can’t remember that I did. But, man, alive, how could I get in and out of that room? It has been proved——” “It has been proved that you could have entered unseen and could have left unseen.” “But how?” “Answer this question truthfully. What was Mrs. Stannard doing, when you left her in the Billiard Room?” “She was sitting on one of the leather seats that are built to the wall.” “Was she looking at you, as you left?” “No. She had buried her face in a pillow against which she leaned.” “Why did she do this? Was she feeling ill?” “No.” “Then why the act?” “I cannot say.” “You mean you will not. Was it because you had said something to her that caused her emotion?” “I refuse to answer, and you have no right to ask.” “Very well, don’t answer. But, you must admit, that if her face was buried in the pillow, she could not see if a man passed through the Billiard Room to the studio.” “But no one did!” “How do you know?” “Because I should have seen him from the bench where I sat.” “No, you would not, because you were the man.” “You accuse me?” “I do.” “I deny it. But I shall say no more to you. Have you a warrant for my arrest?” “I have not.” “Then go—and go quickly, before I tell you what I think of you!” But Bobsy Roberts was no fool. He said, quietly, “I’d rather you would tell me what you think of me. It may help me to get at the truth. There are reasons why we are inquiring into your connection with this matter—you will hear the reasons soon enough. There is peculiar but direct evidence that you are the man who stabbed Mr. Stannard.” “Evidence? What do you mean?” “Just what I say. But never mind that. You have nothing else to tell me? No proof to adduce that you were just where you claim to have been when the studio was darkened?” “No! No proof, because none is needed. You can’t have evidence—it is impossible!” “Then that is all, Mr. Courtenay. You needn’t tell me what you think of me. Your opinion doesn’t interest me. But perhaps after you hear the evidence I speak of, you’ll sing another tune. Oh, I’m not going to tell you about it. Ask Mrs. Stannard.” “I asked you not to mention that lady’s name. Good morning, Mr. Roberts.” “Good morning.” And Bobsy went away, filled with conviction of Eugene Courtenay’s guilt. Courtenay went at once over to see Joyce. “I’ve missed you so,” she said, simply, as she met him on the Terrace. “Why haven’t you been here?” “I thought better not, darling. I can’t control myself sufficiently to hide my love for you. And I feared it might bring embarrassment on you if I let it be seen by any one. Oh, Joyce, it seems so long to wait! Must it be two years? I can’t live through it.” “Hush, Eugene. It seems sacrilege even to speak of our love and poor Eric dead so short a time. Be patient, dear heart. We are both young. You couldn’t love me, or respect me, if I failed in ordinary behaviour toward a husband’s memory. And Eric was good to me.” “Good to you! Losing his head over every pretty woman he met! Joyce, how could you ever marry him?” “He made me. Don’t you know how some women succumb to cave-man wooing? I don’t understand it myself, but his whirlwind love-making carried me off my feet, and I had promised him before I knew it.” “If I had been here at the time, it would never have happened.” “I think it would. I was fascinated by his very vehemence. Now, I know better. I want only your gentle, dear love, that will comfort and content me as he never could.” “You poor little darling. I wish I could give it to you now. Mayn’t I kiss you once—just once, Joyce?” “No, Eugene. Not yet. Some day—when I can’t be patient any longer. When the hunger for your big, sweet affection becomes too intense—the craving too uncontrollable.” She turned away from him and looked off toward the glowing richness of the autumn foliage. “When the robins nest again,” she said, with a little pathetic smile at the quotation. “But now, dear, sit down, I’ve a lot to tell you. I’m glad you came over, I was going to send for you.” And then, without further preamble, Joyce told him the whole story of Orienta and her revelations. Courtenay listened, his eyes growing dark with anxiety as the story progressed. “Who was the man?” he asked quietly, as she finished. “Why, I don’t know. Not a tramp, of course. But, perhaps some blackmailer. You know—Eric’s life wasn’t spotless.” “Listen, Joyce. The man, you say, was dark and with a pointed beard. He was in evening clothes, and wore no hat. He had reason to hate Eric Stannard. Do you know of any one who fulfils those conditions?” Joyce looked at him, and a cloud of fear came to her beautiful eyes. “Don’t, Eugene,” she cried, putting up her white hand, as if to ward off a blow. “Don’t!” “I must, Joyce. And you must listen. When I left you, did you keep your head down on that pillow—or, did you raise it? Tell me truly, dearest.” “I—I kept it down there. I was crying a little—after what—you know—what we had been talking about. I staid that way a long time.” “Until you heard the sounds from the studio?” “Yes; until that.” “Then some one could have passed you—you wouldn’t have heard a soft step?” “No, I probably shouldn’t—but, Eugene, it wasn’t you? Say it wasn’t you!” “It was not. But I have to prove this, Joyce—and it will be difficult.” “Oh, does any one think it was you?” “Yes, the police think so.” “The police! That Roberts man! Oh, why—why did I ever have Madame Orienta come here? But we will prove it was not you, my Eugene—we will prove it.” “Yes, Joyce, my darling, we will, for we must. To whom have you told this story of sitting with your face bowed in the pillow?” “To no one. Oh, yes, to the people in the house, of course. Barry and Beatrice, and, of course, little Natalie. Oh, Eugene, I was so glad when the Priestess’ story seemed to clear Natalie and me of all suspicion of guilt. But if it has implicated you, that is a thousand times worse!” “No, not worse. A man can fight injustice better than a woman. Have you told Roberts?” “About the pillow? No, I don’t think so. But he’ll find it out. That man digs into everything.” “You invited him, yourself, to the sÉance?” “Yes. I thought it wise. I thought it would implicate some stranger and I wanted him to hear.” “Why did you think it would accuse a stranger? Look here, Joyce, you didn’t employ that woman to cook up a yarn, did you?” “Mercy, no!” and Joyce opened her eyes full at him. “Eugene! What an idea! Of course I didn’t. Why, I believe in her as fully as—as I do in you! I can’t say more than that! She is honest and earnest in what she tells. Whether she sees truly, is another thing, and one over which she has no control. But all she says is in sincerity and truth.” “It may be. But she has surely woven a web around me. That is, if others share your belief in her. Now, I’m going to work, Joyce, to find my alibi.” “What do you mean?” “I’m going to scare up somebody who saw me on that bench and will swear to it.” “Swear falsely?” Joyce whispered the words. “If need be. But I hope to get an honest witness. May I speak to your outdoor servants? And the house staff, too, if necessary?” “Of course. Find the head gardener, Mason, he’ll round up the rest. Oh, Eugene, you will find some one, surely. They are about the grounds every night. And perhaps Barry saw you. He was out with the dogs.” “I’ll find some one, dear. Don’t worry.” Courtenay went away, and Joyce went into the house. She went to Beatrice Faulkner’s room, and found her there. “May I come in?” asked Joyce, at the door. “Always, any time. Why, what is the matter, dear?” “Beatrice! You don’t think Eugene killed Eric, do you?” “Of course not! What nonsense!” “Well, they suspect him of it, and he’s going to make up an alibi—or whatever you call it.” “Not make one up! Don’t ever say that, Joyce. You mean, he’s going to find proof of his own testimony.” “Yes, it’s all the same. But, oh, Beatrice, if he did do it—I can never marry him——” “Hush, Joyce! You mustn’t talk like that! Don’t you want to save Eugene?” “Of course I do, if he’s innocent.” “Then believe him innocent! You wrong-minded woman, to doubt the man who loves you, at the first breath of suspicion!” “Then is he innocent, Beatrice? Is he?” “Look in your heart and answer that yourself.” “I do look,” said Joyce, solemnly, “but I can’t read the answer.” |
|
