  Having learned from Avice of Stryker’s relatives, Groot sought the butler at the home of his daughter. “No,” said Mrs. Adler, a scared-looking young woman, “I don’t know where father is. I haven’t seen him for a day or two. But he can’t be lost.” “He’s in hiding, madam,” said Groot, “and he must be found. Are you sure he’s not here?” “Of course, I’m sure. What do you want of him, anyway? My husband is very ill, and I wish you wouldn’t bother me about it. I don’t believe anything has happened to my father, but if there has, I don’t know anything of it. You’ll have to excuse me now, I’m very busy.” She didn’t exactly shut the door in his face, but she came near it, and Groot went away uncertain as to whether she was telling the truth or not. “I wish I’d searched the house,” he thought. “If Stryker doesn’t turn up soon, I will.” Stryker didn’t turn up soon, and Groot and his men did search the house of Mrs. Adler and her sick husband, but with no result. The daughter was apathetic. “Poor father,” she said, “I wonder where he is. But I’m so worried about Mr. Adler, I can think of nothing else.” There was cause, indeed, for the wife’s anxiety, for Adler was in the late stages of galloping consumption. And the harassed woman, none too well fixed with this world’s goods, was alone, caring for him. Groot’s humanity was touched and he forbore to trouble her further. “Stryker’s decamped, that’s all,” Groot said; “and flight is confession. It’s clear enough. He wanted this insurance of his for his daughter, the agent told me the policy is payable to her, and he had to take it out before his age limit was reached. He knew of the legacy coming to him, and in order to get his insurance, he hastened the realization of his fortune.” It did look that way, for Avice and Mrs. Black agreed that Stryker was devoted to his daughter, and they knew of her husband’s desperate illness. Knew too, that she would be left penniless, and was herself delicate and unfit for hard work. Stryker could support her while he lived, but to leave her an income from his life insurance was his great desire. Judge Hoyt, too, said that he knew of this from conversations he had himself had with Stryker. But he had supposed the butler had saved up funds for his insurance premium. He now learned that the support and care of the sick man had made this impossible. So Stryker was strongly suspected of the crime, and every effort was made to find the missing man. Meantime Alvin Duane came. Though alleged to be a clever detective, he admitted he found little to work upon. “It is too late,” he said, “to look for clues on the scene of the crime. Had I been called in earlier, I might have found something, but after nearly a fortnight of damp, rainy weather, one can expect nothing in the way of footprints or other traces, though, of course, I shall look carefully.” Duane was a middle-aged, grizzled man, and though earnest and serious, was not a brilliant member of his profession. He had, he said himself, no use for the hair-trigger deductions of imaginative brains which, oftener than not, were false. Give him good, material clues, and attested evidence, and he would hunt down a criminal as quickly as anybody, but not from a shred of cloth or a missing cuff-link. Eleanor Black, with her dislike of detectives of all sorts, was openly rude to Duane. He was in and out of the house at all hours; he was continually wanting to intrude in the individual rooms, look over Mr. Trowbridge’s papers, quiz the servants, or hold long confabs with Avice or Kane Landon or herself, until she declared she was sick of the very sight of him. “I don’t care,” Avice would say; “if he can find the murderer, he can go about it any way he chooses. He isn’t as sure that Stryker’s guilty as Mr. Groot is. Mr. Duane says if Stryker did it, it was because somebody else hired him or forced him to do it.” “Well, what if it was? I can’t see, Avice, why you want to keep at it. What difference does it make who killed Rowland? He is dead, and to find his murderer won’t restore him to life. For my part, I’d like to forget all the unpleasant details as soon as possible. I think you are morbid on the subject.” “Not at all! It’s common justice and common sense to want to punish a criminal, most of all a murderer! Judge Hoyt agrees with me, and so does Kane——” “Mr. Landon didn’t want you to get Mr. Duane, you know that.” “I do know it, but only because Kane thought the mystery too deep ever to be solved. But I am willing to spend a lot of money on it, and Judge Hoyt is willing to share the expense if it becomes too heavy for me alone.” “The judge would do anything you say, of course. I think you treat him abominably, Avice. You’re everlastingly flirting with Mr. Landon, and it grieves Judge Hoyt terribly.” “Don’t bother about my love affairs, Eleanor. I can manage them.” “First thing you know, you’ll go too far, and Judge Hoyt will give you up. He won’t stand everything. And where will your fortune be then?” “You alarm me!” said Avice, sarcastically. “But when I really need advice, my dear Eleanor, I’ll ask you for it.” “Oh, don’t let’s quarrel. But I do wish you’d see your detective friends somewhere else. If it isn’t Mr. Duane, it’s that Groot or young Pinckney, and sometimes that ridiculous office boy with the carrot head.” “His hair is funny, isn’t it? But Fibsy is a little trump. He’s more saddened at Uncle Rowly’s death than lots of better men.” “Hasn’t he found another place to work yet?” “He’s had chances, but he hasn’t accepted any so far.” “Well, he’s a nuisance, coming round here as he does.” “Why, you needn’t see him, Eleanor. He can’t trouble you, if he just comes now and then to see me. And anyway, he hasn’t been here lately at all.” “And I hope he won’t. Dear me, Avice, what good times we could have if you’d let up on this ferreting. And you know perfectly well it will never amount to anything.” “If you talk like that, Eleanor, I’ll go and live somewhere else. Perhaps you’d rather I would.” “No, not that,—unless you’d really prefer it. But I do hate detectives, whether they’re police, professional or amateur.” Avice repeated this conversation to Duane, and he proposed that they have some of their interviews in his office, and he would then come to the house less frequently. So, Avice went to his office and found it decidedly preferable to talk in a place where there was no danger of being overheard by servants or friends. After due consideration she had concluded to tell the detective about Eleanor’s telephone message the night of the murder and her own subsequent call of the same number. “This is most important,” said Duane, “why didn’t you tell me sooner?” “For one thing, Mrs. Black was always within hearing at home, and I didn’t like to.” “I think I’ll go right now to see this Lindsay; he may give us some valuable information.” And Lindsay did. He was a frank, outspoken young man and told Duane all he knew which was considerable. “Of course, I read all about the murder that the papers told,” he said, “but I always felt there was more to come. What about that housekeeper person?” “Mrs. Black?” “Yes. I’ve not wanted to butt in, but she was described in the papers and then,—well, it’s a queer thing,—but some sweet-voiced fairy called me up one day and asked me if I knew Mrs. Black!” “Perhaps that was the lady herself,” said Duane, who knew better. “Don’t think so. Sounded more like some damsel in distress. Voice quivered and all that sort of thing. And she said that the Black person had called up this number the very night of the murder! What do you think of that?” “Strange!” murmured Duane. “Yes, sir, strange enough, when you realize that Kane Landon occupied these rooms of mine that night.” “How did that happen?” “Well, Landon is an old friend of mine,—used to be, that is,—and when he blew in from Denver, with no home and mother waiting for him, and I was just flying off for a few days out of town, I said, ‘Bunk here,’ and he gratefully did. Then next thing I know, he’s gone off to his uncle’s inquest, leaving a note of thanks and farewell! Queer, if you ask me!” “I do ask you. And I ask you, too, if you’re casting any reflection on Mr. Landon himself?” “Oh, not that, but you’d think he’d come to see me, or something.” “Yes, I’d think so. Did he talk to you of money matters?” “Not to any great extent. Said he had a big mining proposition that meant a fortune if he could get the necessary advance capital. Said he hoped to get it from his uncle.” “Not meaning by a legacy?” “Oh, no. Said he was going to bone the old man for it. Which he did, according to the yarn of a fresh office boy.” “Well, Mr. Lindsay, I’m glad you’re so frank in this matter. Do you know anything further of interest regarding Kane Landon?” “I’m not sure. What does this housekeeper look like?” “Rather stunning. Handsome, in a dark, foreign way. Big, black eyes, and—” “Look like an adventuress?” “Yes, I must admit that term describes her.” “Black, glossy hair, ’most covering her ears, and mighty well groomed?” “Exactly.” “Then Kane Landon met that woman by appointment Tuesday afternoon,—the day of his uncle’s murder.” “Where?” “In the Public Library. They didn’t see me, but I was attracted at the sight of this beautiful woman on one of the marble benches in one of the halls, evidently waiting for somebody. Then Landon came and he greeted her eagerly. She gave him a small packet, wrapped in paper, and they talked so earnestly they didn’t see me at all. I was only there for a short time, to look up a matter of reference for some people I was visiting. We had motored in from Long Island,—Landon was then in my rooms, you know.” “What time was this?” “Just half-past two. I know, because I had told my people I’d meet them again at three, and I wanted a half hour for my research, and had it, too.” “This is most important, Mr. Lindsay. You are prepared to swear it all as a witness, if called on?” “Oh, it’s all true, of course. But, I say, I don’t want to get old Landon in trouble.” “It doesn’t necessarily imply that. Perhaps Mrs. Black may be implicated more than we have supposed. But he, I understand, denies knowing the lady until meeting her here, after his uncle’s death.” “Nonsense, he knew her for years out in Denver. They are old friends.” “That, too, is of importance. Why should he wish to pretend they were not?” “I don’t know, I’m sure. But Landon always was a queer Dick. You know he left college before he was graduated, because of a quarrel with this same uncle. Mr. Trowbridge was putting him through, and they had a tiff about something, and Kane chucked it all, and went off out West. Been there ever since, till just now, and it’s a pity he hadn’t stayed there rather than to get mixed up in this affair.” “You consider him mixed up in it, then?” “I wouldn’t say that, but I know the police are still hinting at his possible connection with the matter and the Press, you know, will try to hang the crime on to somebody worth while. They don’t want to suspect highwaymen or Swedish passers-by, if they can get a man higher up. Now, do they?” “I can’t say. I’ve only just begun on this case, and I wish I’d been called sooner. It’s a great thing to get in at the beginning——” “Yes, when the clues are fresh. Well, if I can help you in any way, call on me. Landon is my friend, but if he’s innocent, investigation won’t hurt him, and if he’s implicated, he ought to be shown up.” Alvin Duane went away, full of new theories. If Kane Landon did kill his uncle, here were several bits of corroborative evidence. If Mrs. Black was an old friend of his, and they had pretended otherwise, that was a suspicious circumstance in itself. And if they were both entirely innocent and unconnected in any way with the murder, why did they meet secretly in the library instead of openly at the Trowbridge home? These things must be explained, and satisfactorily, too. Also, what was in the package that she went there to give him? Lindsay had said it was about the size of a brick, but flatter. Was it, could it have been a handkerchief of Stryker’s? Duane’s brain was leaping wildly now. Supposing these two conspirators were responsible for the murder. Supposing Kane had been the subject of his uncle’s dying words, and had himself committed the deed, might it not be that the adventuress (as he already called Mrs. Black) had brought him a handkerchief of the butler’s in deliberate scheming to fasten the crime on Stryker! That Landon had left it there purposely, and that Stryker discovering this, had fled, in fear of being unable to prove his innocence. All theory, to be sure, but well-founded theory backed by the recorded facts, which Duane had studied till he knew them by heart. Then the telephone caller who said “Uncle” was really the nephew, and the “stephanotis” and Caribbean Sea were jokes between the two, or as was more likely, figments of the stenographer’s fertile brain. On an impulse, Duane went to see Miss Wilkinson, the stenographer, and verify his ideas. “You’re sure it was a man’s voice?” he asked her. “Sure,” she replied, always ready to reiterate this, though she had been quizzed about it a dozen times. “Do you think it could have been Mr. Landon?” “Yes, I think it could have been Mr. Landon, or Mr. Stryker, or the President of the United States. There isn’t anybody I don’t think it could have been! I tell you the voice was purposely disguised. Sort of squeaky and high pitched. So can’t you see that it was really a man with a natchelly low voice? You detectives make me tired! I give you the straight goods that it was a disguised voice, and so, unreckonizable. Then you all come round and say, ‘was it this one?’ ‘was it that one?’ I tell you I don’t know. If I’d a known whose voice it was, I’d a told at the inquest. I ain’t one to keep back the weels of justice, I ain’t!” “Never mind the voice then. Tell me again of those queer words——” “Oh, for the land’s sake! I wish I’d never heard ’em! Well, one was stephanotis,—got that? It’s a very expensive puffume, and the next man that asks me about it, has got to gimme a bottle. I had a bottle onct——” “I know, I know,” said Duane, hastily, “that’s how you came to know the name.” “Yep. Now, go on to the Caribbean Sea.” The blonde looked cross and bored. “No, I don’t know why anybody invited Mr. Trowbridge to the Caribbean; if I had I’d been most pleased to tell long ago. But somebody did. I heard it as plain as I hear you now. Yes, I’m sure it was the Caribbean Sea, and not the Medtranean nor the Red Sea nor the Bay of Oshkosh! So there, now. Anything else this morning?” “How pettish you are!” “And so would you be if everybody was a pesterin’ you about them old words. Can I help it if the man talked Greek? Can I help it if he squeaked his voice so’s I couldn’t reckonize it? I gave my testimony and it was all recorded. Why can’t you read that over and let me alone, I’d like to know!” But after a pleasant little gift of a paper, fresh from the United States Bureau of Engraving and Printing, Miss Wilkinson grew a little more sunny tempered. “No,” she said, in answer to Duane’s last question, “I can’t quite remember whether the voice said he had set a trap or somebody else had set one. But I’m positive he said one or the other. And he said the trap was set for Mr. Trowbridge,—whoever set it.” |
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