  “Yes, I have often heard the idea expressed that the more bizarre the clues appear, the easier the solution of the mystery. And this is frequently true.” Fleming Stone looked from one to another of the interested group of listeners. They sat in the library,—Pauline, Anita, Gray Haviland and the young detective, Hardy. Haviland had carried out his plan of cabling Carrington Loria for authority to employ Mr. Stone, and had received a reply to use his own judgment in all such matters and charge the expense to Loria’s account. Pauline had been opposed to the idea of calling Fleming Stone to the case, but as she seemed unable to put forth any valid objections, Haviland had insisted until she gave her consent. So arrangements had been quickly made, and the great Detective had reached Garden Steps on Wednesday afternoon, just a week after the discovery of the murder. Previously unacquainted with Stone, the whole household was interested in his personality, and this preliminary conversation was by way of introduction. A man of nearly fifty, Fleming Stone was tall and well proportioned, with a carriage and bearing that gave an impression of strength. His clear-cut face and firm jaw gave the same character indications as are seen in portraits of Lincoln, but his features were far more harmonious than those of our rugged-faced president. Stone’s hair, thick and dark, was slightly grayed at the temples, and his deep-set eyes were now lustrous, and again, shadowed, like the water of a dark pool. His lean jaw and forceful mouth made his face in repose somewhat stern, but this effect was often banished by his delightful smile, which softened his whole countenance and gave him a distinct air of friendliness. His manner was full of charm, and even Pauline became fascinated as she watched him and listened to his talk. Fully at ease and skilfully directing the conversation, while he seemed merely sharing it, Stone was studying and classifying the new elements with which he had to deal. Not yet had he inquired as to the details of the case in hand, he was discussing detective work in general, much to the gratification of Tom Hardy, who listened as a pupil at the feet of Gamaliel. “Yes,” went on Stone, settling back sociably in his easy chair, while the others unconsciously fell into more informal postures, “Yes, bizarre effects do often point the way to a successful quest. Why, once, a man was found dead, with his feet in a tub of cold water. It was discovered that his feet had been immersed after death had taken place. Obviously the tub of water had been used as a blind, to fog up the case. But the very character of the clue led at once to a man who was known as a ‘cold water fiend,’ and a fiend indeed he was. He was the murderer. You see, he was clever, but not clever enough. He had wit enough to think of the queer circumstance of the tub of water, but not enough to realize that the clue would lead directly to his own undoing.” Everybody looked thoughtful, but it was Hardy who spoke; “Yes, Mr. Stone,” he said, “but that clue was put there on purpose. Do you think these strange effects connected with Miss Carrington’s murder were deliberately arranged?” “That I can’t tell now, Mr. Hardy. In fact, I have not heard a connected and circumstantial account of the discoveries, as yet. Suppose we go over the case, leisurely, and let me get a complete account by means of a general conversation. I will ask questions, or you may volunteer information, as seems most enlightening. Tell me first of the character and characteristics of Miss Carrington. Was she timid, or fearful of burglars?” “Not at all,” said Haviland. “She was careful to have the house locked up at night by the servants, but she had no burglar alarms or anything of that sort.” “If a marauder had appeared, would she have been likely to scream out in affright?” “No, I don’t think so,” volunteered Anita. “She would more likely demand to know what he wanted and order him out.” “Yet the black-jack clearly indicates a burglar,” went on Stone; “I can’t imagine an ordinary citizen, of any calling, owning or using such a weapon.” “Have you examined the thing?” asked Haviland. “No; I should like to see it.” Tom Hardy at once produced it, having brought it with him from Police Headquarters for the purpose. “H’m,” said Fleming Stone, as he fingered the not very alarming-looking affair. In fact, it was merely a long, narrow bag, made of dark cloth and filled with shot. The bag was tied tightly at one end with a bit of twine to prevent the escape of the contents. “Home-made affair,” Stone went on. “Made probably by a professional burglar, but an amateur murderer. See, it is merely a bit of heavy cloth, out from an old coat sleeve or trouser leg, sewed up in a bungling manner to make a bag. It is stitched with coarse black thread and the stitches are drawn hard and firm, evidently pulled through by a strong hand. Then, filled with shot, it is tied with a bit of old fish-line, which also is pulled and knotted by muscular fingers. And——” Stone paused abruptly. “And—” prompted Anita, breathlessly, her eyes fixed on the speaker. “Nothing much,” and Stone smiled; “only I should say the burglar lived in a house recently remodeled.” Hardy nodded in satisfaction. This was the sort of deduction he was looking for. Next he hoped for the color of the man’s hair, and the sort of cigar he smoked. But he was doomed to disappointment. “We seem to have drifted from the subject of Miss Carrington,” Stone said. “The evening before her death was she in her usual spirits? Evidently no premonition of her fate?” “On the contrary,” said Gray, “she remarked during the evening that something would happen to her that night which would surprise and astound us all. She said distinctly that ‘to-morrow everything would be different.’” “What did you understand her to mean by that?” “We couldn’t understand it at all. It was most mysterious. Nor do we yet know what she meant. For surely she had no thought of dying. She spent the evening playing cards and listening to music, and conversation with the family and guests, quite as usual.” “In amiable mood?” asked Stone. “No,” replied Pauline, taking up the talk; “on the contrary she was exceedingly irritable and ill-tempered.” “You saw her after she went to her room for the night?” and Stone turned his whole attention to Pauline. “Yes; Miss Frayne and I always went to her room with her, to say good-night and to receive possible orders or suggestions for the next day’s occupations.” “And you say she was unamiable?” “That is a mild word,” and Pauline smiled a little. “She was in a high temper, and she told us both that we were to leave this house the next day.” “You both left her in that mood?” “Yes, we were obliged to do so. She dismissed us peremptorily and ordered us from the room.” “And you saw her next, Miss Stuart, when?” asked Fleming Stone gently. Pauline hesitated for a perceptible instant, then she said, with a slight air of bravado, “next morning.” “I have been told the main facts,” went on Stone, “but I want to learn certain details. Please tell me, Miss Stuart, exactly how she then appeared.” “Oh, I can’t!” and Pauline flung her face into her hands with a short, sharp cry. “I should think you couldn’t!” exclaimed Anita, and her voice was distinctly accusing. This seemed to rouse Pauline, and she looked up haughtily at the speaker. “I don’t wonder you think so!” she cried. “But since you ask, Mr. Stone, I will do the best I can. My aunt was seated at her dressing-table, but not in her usual chair,—or indeed, as if she were in any way attending to her toilette,—but in an easy chair, more as if she were sitting there in contemplation.” “Was she given to such indications of vanity?” asked Stone, in a gentle way. “Not at all. My aunt was not a beautiful woman, and she had no illusions about her personal appearance. I have never known her to look at herself in a mirror more than was necessary for her dressing. Her maid will tell you this.” “Go on, please, Miss Stuart.” “When I saw my aunt, she was sitting placidly, even smilingly,—and I did not, for a moment, imagine she was not alive. Then I noticed her large tortoise-shell comb was broken to bits, and I noticed, too, her rigid, staring face. The next few moments are a confused memory to me, but I know I touched her hand and felt it cold, then I called to Mr. Haviland and he came.” “Tell me of your aunt’s garb. I understand it was most unusual.” “Only in the accessories. The gown she had on was a negligÉe of Oriental make and fabric, elaborate, but one of which she was fond and which she had worn several times. Round her shoulders was a scarf, one of those heavy Syrian ones, of net patterned with silver. Then, she had on quantities of jewelry. Not only her pearls, and a few pins, which she had worn during the evening, but she had added many brooches and bracelets and rings of great value.” “She was wearing, let us say, a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry?” “Far more than that. Her pearls alone are worth that amount. Her diamond sunburst is valued at fifty thousand dollars and her emerald brooch is equally valuable. My aunt believed in gems as an investment, and though she usually kept them in a safe deposit vault, she had recently taken them from there, and had them all in the house.” “A strange proceeding?” “Very. I have never known such a thing to occur before unless for some especial social occasion.” “And the paper snake, of which I have been told——” “That is the strangest part of all! My aunt was not only afraid of live snakes, but she had also a perfect horror of any picture or artificial representation of them. She could never, in her right mind, have placed that paper snake about her own neck, nor would she have allowed any one else to do it, without screaming out in horror. Yet, the doctors declare it must have been placed round her neck before death. Therefore, it is to me entirely unexplainable.” “Is not that a bizarre clue that should make the case an easy one?” asked Anita, with an inquiring glance at Stone. “It may be so,” he replied, with a thoughtful look at her. “Where could such a snake have come from?” “It was brought by the burglar, of course,” said Pauline, quickly. “I don’t mean that; but where could it be bought?” “Oh, at Vantine’s or any Japanese shop,” said Pauline, “or at some of the department stores.” “Could you, by inquiry, find out if Miss Carrington purchased it herself at any of those places?” “I could inquire; but I am sure, Mr. Stone, that Aunt Lucy never bought such a thing.” “It would simplify matters somewhat if you would kindly find out,” and Stone nodded at her, as if to stamp this suggestion a definite request. The conversation went on, and no one noticed that so deftly did Fleming Stone guide it that only facts were brought out. No sooner did any one begin to formulate an opinion or theory than he skilfully turned the subject or changed the drift of the discussion. He gathered from facial expressions and manners much that he wanted to know, he learned the attitudes of the various members of the household toward each other, and he came to the conclusion that as Gray Haviland had engaged him, and as he stood as business head of the estate by authority of Carrington Loria, to Haviland should his reports be made. “Tell me more of Mr. Loria,” Stone said, at last, after many matters had been discussed. “He and I are children of Miss Carrington’s two sisters,” said Pauline. “Our parents all died when we were young children and Aunt Lucy brought us both up. Carr, as we call him, lived with us, except for his college terms, until four years ago. Then he had an opportunity to go to Egypt and engage in excavation and ancient research work. He is absorbed in it, and has been home only twice in the four years. It was planned that my aunt and I should go to Egypt next month on a pleasure trip, and both he and we looked forward eagerly to it. Miss Frayne was to accompany us, and Mr. Haviland also.” “Is it your intention to abandon the trip?” “Speaking for myself, Mr. Stone, no,” and Pauline looked determined. “I cannot answer for the others, but it seems to me that such a visit to my cousin would be not only right and proper for me, but the only way for me to find relief and distraction from these dreadful scenes.” “You won’t go, I assume,” said Stone, gently, “until the murderer of your aunt is apprehended with certainty?” “I cannot say,” and suddenly Pauline flushed rosily and looked distinctly embarrassed. “Rather not!” declared Anita, with an unpleasant glance, and Fleming Stone made haste to introduce a new phase of the subject. |
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