  At the invitation of Haviland, Fleming Stone was a house guest at Garden Steps. Pauline had raised objections to this, but with Carr Loria’s authority back of him, Gray had insisted, and Pauline unwillingly consented. Stone himself recognized the fact that Pauline disliked him, or at any rate disliked having him on the case, but he ignored it and showed to her the same gracious manner and pleasant attitude that he showed to all. Anita, on the other hand, seemed charmed with Stone. She lost no opportunity to talk with him, and she used every endeavor to attract his attention to herself. In fact, she tried to flirt with him, and much to the surprise of the others, Stone seemed ready to meet her advances and respond to them. The morning after his arrival, breakfast over, Stone announced his intention of making a thorough examination of Miss Carrington’s rooms, and asked that he be permitted to go alone for the purpose. “If Mr. Hardy comes, send him up,” he ordered, as Haviland unlocked the door to give him admittance. Stone passed through the boudoir to the bedroom and from that to the elaborate dressing-room and bath. Quickly he noted the obvious details. Everything had been left practically untouched, and his rapid, trained gaze took in the bed, turned down but not slept in; the toilet accessories laid ready in the bathroom; and the fresh, unused towels, that proved the unfortunate victim had not prepared to retire, but had, for some reason, donned her jewels at that unusual hour. Back to the boudoir Stone went and made there more careful scrutiny. Carefully he examined the white dust of powder on the floor. At Hardy’s orders, this had not been swept away, and Stone stood, with folded arms, looking at it. He saw the place where the powder had been smeared about,—he had been told of this,—but he saw other places where faint footprints were to his keen eye discernible. Not sufficiently clear to judge much of their characteristics, but enough to show that a stockinged foot had imprinted them. “Well, what do you make of the tracks?” asked Hardy, coming in upon his meditations. “Their tale is a short one but clear,” returned Stone, smiling a greeting to the younger detective. “As you see, they go out of the room only, they don’t come in.” “Proving?” “That the intruder came in at the door, accomplished his dreadful purpose, and then, stepped around here in front of his victim,—here where the powder is spilt, and then went straight out of the room. Why did he do this?” “He heard something to frighten him off?” “He saw something that frightened him. I doubt if he heard anything. But he dropped his black-jack and fled. Did you bring the photographs of the scene?” “Yes, here they are.” Hardy handed over a sheaf of the gruesome pictures, and Stone scanned them eagerly. Yet their gruesomeness lay largely in the idea that the subject of them was not a living person,—for in appearance they were by no means unpleasant to look at. The face of Miss Carrington was serene and smiling, her wide-open eyes, though staring, were filled with a life-like wonder, not at all an expression of fright or terror. “You see,” volunteered Hardy, “she was sitting here, admiring herself, and happily smiling, when the villain sneaked up behind her and gave her that crack over the head.” “But she was already dead when she was hit on the head.” “So the doctors think, but I believe they’re mistaken. Why, there’s no theory that would account for hitting a dead person!” “And yet, that is what happened. No, Hardy, the doctors are not mistaken about the hour of death, and about the poison in her system and all that. But the most obvious and most important clue, for the moment, is that black-jack. Just where was it found?” “Right here, Mr. Stone, under the edge of this couch. Hidden on purpose, of course.” “No, I think not. Dropped by the burglar, rather, when he was startled by something unexpected. You see, he doubtless stood here, where the powder is dusted about, and to drop the thing quickly, it would fall or be flung just there where it was found.” “Yes, but what scared him, if he didn’t hear anything?” “Something that frightened him so terribly that he fled without taking the jewels he had come for! Something that made him make quick, straight tracks for the door and downstairs and out, by the way he had entered.” “Good lord! Say, Mr. Stone, you think it was that make-believe Count, don’t you?” “Why make-believe?” “Oh, somehow, I feel sure he’s a fake. He’s not the real thing,—or I’m greatly mistaken!” “Let me see that glove found in her hand. Have you it with you?” Hardy had brought some of the exhibits held by the police, and, taking the glove from his bag, he handed it to Fleming Stone. Stone looked at the glove hastily, but, raising it to his nose, smelled of it very carefully. “No,” he said, returning it, “no, the Count is not the man who wielded the black-jack. I’m fairly certain of that.” “Well, I’m blessed if I can see how you know by smelling! By the way, Mr. Stone, I suppose you heard all about the conversation that Miss Frayne related as taking place in this room after one o’clock that night?” “Yes, I’ve read the full account of it. What do you think about it?” “Oh, I think it was the Count, talking to Miss Carrington before he killed her. He has a very low voice, and speaks almost inaudibly always. Then, you see, he is down in her will for ten thousand dollars of those bonds, and he’s very fond of pearls,——” “What’s that? Who said he was fond of pearls?” “Oh, maybe you didn’t hear about that. Why, Miss Frayne remembered afterward, that another sentence she heard Miss Carrington say was, ‘I know how very fond you are of pearls.’ She forgot that speech in her evidence, but found it afterward in the written account she had of what she overheard at the door. And his Countship is fond of pearls. He talked a lot about those the lady wore that last evening. He says himself pearls are a hobby with him.” “So you really think the Count was in this room that night?” “Surely I do. It’s no insult to the lady’s memory to say so. She had a right to receive him in her boudoir if she chose to do so. It’s no secret that she was trying to annex him, and he was not entirely unwilling. You see,—the way I dope it out,—she had him up here to show off her stunning jewels, and so tempt him on to a declaration that she couldn’t seem to work him up to otherwise. You know she said, ‘To-morrow these may all be yours, if you will only——’ or some words to that effect. What could all that mean, except as I’ve indicated? And she said, ‘You are the game I’m after,’—those weren’t the words, I know, but it meant that.” “However, I can’t think the Count struck that awful blow that fractured her skull. Villain he may be, even a murderous one, but that black-jack business, to my mind, points to a lower type of brain, a more thick-skinned criminal.” Stone spoke musingly, looking about the room as he talked. “Could it be,” he went on, “that she was talking to herself? or, say, to a picture,—a photograph of somebody? I don’t see any photographs about.” Both men looked around, but there were no portraits to be seen. “Funny,” said Hardy: “most women have photographs of their family or relatives all over the place. Not even one of Miss Stuart or of her nephew, Loria.” “No, nor any of absent friends or school-mates.” Stone looked over all the silver paraphernalia of the dressing-table and other tables for even a small framed photograph that might have escaped notice, but found none. On the walls hung only gilt-framed water colors or photographs of famous bits of art or architecture in dark wood frames. Many of these were of old world masterpieces, Italian cathedrals or Egyptian temples. Others were a well-known Madonna, a Venus of Milo, and one at which Hardy exclaimed, “She’s a sure enough peach! Who’s she?” “That’s Cleopatra, starting on her Nile trip,” said Stone, smiling at Hardy’s evident admiration. “’Tis, eh? Then Loria brought it to her. He’s daffy over anything Egyptian. And he’s mighty generous. The house is full of the stuff he brings or sends over; and it’s his money, Mr. Stone, that pays your damages. Miss Stuart, now, she’s none too free-handed, they say.” But Fleming Stone paid little heed to this gossip. He was studying the photographs of the dead lady as being of far more interest than pictures on the boudoir walls. “Where’s that maid?” he said suddenly; “the one who brought the breakfast tray——” “She’s in the sanatorium,” returned Hardy; “we told you that, Mr. Stone.” “Yes, yes, I know. But where? Can I see her? Now, at once!” “Yes, I suppose so. It’s right near here. A small private affair, only a few patients. They needn’t really have sent her, but she carried on so, Miss Stuart wouldn’t have her about any longer.” “Come, let us go there.” As he spoke, Fleming Stone left the room, and without waiting for the hurrying Hardy, ran downstairs, and was in the hall, getting into his great coat when the other joined him. So great was Hardy’s faith in his superior, and so anxious was he to watch his methods, that he donned his own overcoat without a word, and the two set forth. It was only a short walk, and on the way, Stone looked about in every direction, asking innumerable questions about the neighboring houses and their occupants. After passing several large and handsome estates, they came to a district of less elaborate homes, and after that to a section of decidedly poorer residences. At one of these, Stone stared hard, but not till they were well past it, did he inquire who lived there. “Dunno,” replied Hardy; “it’s a sort of boarding-house, I think, for the lower classes.” “Is it?” said Stone, and they went on. At the sanatorium they found Estelle. She was not hysterical now, but was in a sort of apathetic mood, and listless of manner. Stone spoke to her with polite address, and a manner distinctly reassuring. “It will be much better for you, Estelle,” he said, pleasantly, “if you will speak the truth. Better for you, and better for——you know whom.” His significant tone roused her, “I don’t know who you mean,” she exclaimed. “Oh, yes, you do! somebody whose name begins with H, or B, or S.” “I don’t know any one beginning with S,” and Estelle frowned defiantly. “But some one with——” Stone leaned forward, and in the tense pause that followed, Estelle’s lips half formed a silent ‘B’. “Yes,” went on Stone, as if he had not paused. “If you will tell the whole truth, it will be better for Bates in the long run.” Estelle began to tremble. “What do you know?” she cried out, and showed signs of hysteria. “I know a great deal,” said Stone, gravely, “and, unless assisted by what you know, my knowledge will bring trouble to your friend.” “What do you want me to tell you?” and Estelle, now on her guard, spoke slowly and clearly, but her fingers were nervously twining themselves in and out of her crumpled handkerchief. “Only your own individual part in the proceedings. The rest we will learn from Bates himself.” “How do you know it was Bates?” “We have learned much since you left Garden Steps,” and now Stone spoke a little more sternly. Hardy looked at him in wonder. Who was this Bates, clearly implicated in the murder, and known to Estelle? “You see, Mr. Haviland saw you go down to open the window for him to come in,” Stone went on, as casually as if he were retailing innocent gossip. “Did you go down again and close it?” “I haven’t said I opened it yet,” and Estelle flashed an irate glance at her questioner. “No, but you will do so when you realize how necessary it is. I tell you truly, when I say that only your honesty now can save your friend Bates from the electric chair.” Estelle shuddered and began to cry violently. “That only makes matters worse,” said Stone patiently. “Listen to me. This is your only chance to save Bates’ life. If I go to the police with what I know, they will convict him of the murder beyond all doubt. If you tell me what I ask,—I think, I hope, between us, we can prove that he did not do it.” “But didn’t he?” and Estelle looked up with hope dawning in her eyes. “I think not. Now there’s no time to waste. Tell me what I ask or you will lose your chance to do so. You opened the living-room window for Bates to come in, at about three o’clock?” “Yes,” admitted the girl. “And went down and closed and fastened it at——” “Five o’clock,” came in lowest tones. “Not knowing that Miss Carrington was dead?” “Oh, No!” “For Bates went there only to steal the jewels?” “Yes.” “And so, when you took the breakfast tray, and found the lady—as you did find her—you were frightened out of your wits, and dropped the tray?” “Yes.” “And so, to shield Bates, who you thought had killed her, you lied right and left, even trying to incriminate Miss Stuart?” “Yes, sir.” “Have you seen Bates since?” “No, sir.” “And until now you have thought he killed your mistress?” “I didn’t know.” “Another thing, Estelle; you put bromide in the glass of milk in order that Miss Carrington might sleep soundly, and not hear Bates come in?” “She didn’t drink that milk!” “But you fixed it, thinking she would?” “Yes.” “That’s all. Come on, Hardy.” and somewhat unceremoniously, Stone took leave, and made for the nearest telephone station. After that, matters whizzed. Stone had called the Police Headquarters and asked that an officer be sent with a warrant for the arrest of Bates. “How do you know where he is?” asked Hardy, nearly bursting with curiosity. “I’m not sure, but at least I know where to start looking for him,” Stone replied, as the two went back the way they had come. Stone stopped at the boarding-house he had noticed on the way to the sanatorium, and rang the bell. Sure enough, Bates lived there and Bates was at home. At Stone’s first questions he broke down and confessed to the assault with the black-jack. “But I didn’t kill her!” he cried, “she was already dead! Oh, my God! can I ever forget those terrible, staring eyes! The saints forgive me! I was half crazy. There she was, dead, and yet smiling and happy looking! Oh, sir, what does it all mean?” |
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