  “Hello, Fult,” Fibsy sang out gaily to the chauffeur, and received a pleasant response, for few could resist the contagious smile of the round, freckled face of the boy. “Hello, Mr. Fibsy,” the other returned, “how you getting on with your detective work?” “Fine; but I want a little help from you.” “Me? I don’t know anything about anything.” “Well, then tell me what you don’t know. That fire now, here in the garage, the night of the murder, did you ever find out how it started?” Fulton’s face took on a perplexed look and he said: “No, we didn’t—and it’s a queer thing. It must have been started by some one purposely, for there’s no way it could have come about by accident.” “Spontaneous combustion?” “Whatever made you think of that? And it couldn’t have been from old paint rags, or such, for there’s nothing like that about. But—well, here’s what I found.” Fulton produced a small bottle. It was empty and had no label or stopper, and Fibsy looked at it blankly. “What is it?” he asked. “Never see one like it?” “No; have you?” “Yes, I have. I was in the war, and bottles like that contained acid which, when combined with another acid, caused spontaneous combustion.” “Combined—how?” “Well, they used to saturate some cloth or old clothes with the other acid, and throw them about. Then, when the time came they threw a little bottle like that, filled with acid, and with only a paper stopper, in among the clothes. The acid slowly ate out the paper stopper, and then the two acids caused combustion. So, by the time the fire started, the man who was responsible for it was far away from the scene.” “Whew! And you think that happened here?” “There’s the bottle. The fire began in Mr. Appleby’s car. Two coats and a rug were burned—now, mightn’t they have been sprinkled with the other acid——” “Of course that’s what happened! Why haven’t you told this before?” “I only found the bottle this morning. It had been kicked under a bench, and the sweeper found it. Then I fell a-thinking, for it’s the very same sort of bottle I saw used over there. Somebody who knew that trick did it.” “And whoever did it is either Mr. Appleby’s murderer, or an accomplice.” “You think the two crimes are connected, then?” “Haven’t a doubt of it. You’re a clever chap, Fulton, to dope this out——” “Well, there was no other explanation. Anything else hinted at carelessness of my management of this place, and that hurt my pride, for I like to think this garage the pink of perfection as to cleanliness and order.” “Mr. Wheeler is fortunate in having such a man as you. Now, one more thing, Fulton; where is Rachel?” “Rachel!” “Yes, your blush gives you away. If you know where she is, tell me. If she’s done nothing wrong it can do no harm to find her. If she has done anything wrong, she must be found.” “I don’t know where she is, Mr. Fibsy——” “Call me McGuire. And if you don’t know where she is, you know something about her disappearance. When did she go away?” “I saw her last night. She said nothing about going away, but she seemed nervous and worried, and I couldn’t say anything to please her.” “Can’t you form any idea of where she might have gone? Be frank, Fulton, for much depends on getting hold of that girl.” “I can only say I’ve no idea where she is, but she may communicate with me. In that case——” “In that case, let me know at once,” Fibsy commanded, and having learned all he could there, he went off to think up some other means of finding the lost Rachel. Meantime Sam Appleby was taking his departure. “I have to go,” he said, in response to the Wheelers’ invitation to tarry longer; “because Keefe is coming down to-morrow. One of us ought to be in father’s office all the time now, there’s so much to attend to.” “Why is Mr. Keefe coming here?” asked Maida. “Mr. Stone wants to see him,” Appleby informed her. “You know, Keefe is more or less of a detective himself, and Mr. Stone thinks he may be helpful in finding the criminal. Miss Lane is coming also, she begged to, mostly, I think, because she took such a liking to you.” “I liked her, too,” returned Maida; “she’s a funny girl but a sincere, thorough nature.” “Yes, she is. Well, they’ll only stay over a day or two, I can’t spare them longer. Of course, they may be of help to Mr. Stone, and they may not. But I don’t want to miss a trick in this investigation. What a queer little chap that boy of Stone’s is!” “Fibsy?” and Maida smiled. “Yes, he’s a case! And he’s my devoted slave.” “As who isn’t?” exclaimed Appleby. “Oh, Maida, do give me a little encouragement. After this awful business is all over, mayn’t I come back with a hope that you’ll smile on me?” “Don’t talk that way, Sam. You know I’m engaged to Jeffrey.” “Oh, no, you’re not. I mean, it can be possible for you to change your mind. Girls are often engaged to several men before they marry.” “I’m not that sort,” and Maida smiled a little sadly. “Be that sort, then.” “You seem to forget that I may be openly accused of crime at any moment. And a crime that hits you pretty closely.” “Don’t say such things, dear. Neither you nor any of your people are responsible for the dreadful thing that happened to father—or, if you are, I never want to know it. And I do want you, Maida dear—so much——” “Hush, Sam; I won’t listen to anything like that from you.” “Not now, but later on,” he urged. “Tell me that I may come back, Maida dear.” “Of course you may come here, whenever you like, but I hold out no hope of the sort you ask for.” “I shall hope all the same. I’d die if I didn’t! Good-bye, Maida, for this time.” He went away to the train, and later, came Keefe and Genevieve Lane. “Oh,” the girl cried, “I’m so glad to be back here again, Maida. My, but you’re prettier than ever! If you’d only touch up those pale cheeks—just a little bit—here, let me——” She opened her ever-ready vanity box, and was about to apply a touch of rouge, but Maida sprang away from her. “No, no, Genevieve, I never use it.” “Silly girl! You don’t deserve the beauty nature gave you, if you’re not willing to help it along a little yourself! How do you do, Mrs. Wheeler and Mr. Wheeler?” She greeted them prettily, and Keefe, too, exchanged greetings with the family. “Anything being done?” he asked, finally. “Has Mr. Stone discovered anything of importance?” “Nothing very definite, I fear,” returned Daniel Wheeler. He spoke wearily, and almost despairingly. Anxiety and worry had aged him, even in the last few days. “I do hope, Keefe, that you can be of assistance. You have a keen eye for details, and may know or remember some points that escaped our notice.” “I’m hoping I can help,” Keefe returned with a serious face. “Can I see Stone shortly?” “Yes, now. Come along into the den, he’s in here.” The two men went to the den, where Stone and Fibsy were in deep consultation. “Very glad to see you, Mr. Keefe,” Fleming Stone acknowledged the introduction. “This is McGuire, my young assistant. You may speak frankly before him.” “If I have anything to speak,” said Keefe. “I don’t really know anything I haven’t told, but I may remind Mr. Wheeler of some points he has forgotten.” “Well, let’s talk it all over,” Stone suggested, and they did. Keefe was greatly surprised and impressed by the story of the cook’s having seen a man on the south veranda at the time of the shooting. “But she didn’t see him clearly,” Fibsy added. “Couldn’t she describe him?” “No; she didn’t see him plain enough. But the maid, Rachel, told cook that she saw the man, too, and that he carried a bugle. Cook didn’t see the bugle.” “Naturally not, if she only saw the man vaguely,” said Wheeler. “But, it begins to look as if there must have been a man there and if so, he may have been the criminal.” “Let us hope,” said Keefe, earnestly. “Now, can you find this man, Mr. Stone?” “We’ve got to find him,” Stone returned, “whether we can or not. It’s really a baffling case. I think we’ve discovered the origin of the fire in the garage.” He told the story that Fibsy had learned from the chauffeur, and Keefe was greatly interested. “What are the acids?” he asked. “I don’t know the exact names,” Stone admitted, “but they are of just such powers as Fulton described, and the thing is plausible. Here’s the bottle.” He offered the little vial for inspection and Keefe looked at it with some curiosity. “The theory being,” he said, “that the murderer first arranged for a fire in our car—in Mr. Appleby’s car—and then waited for the fire to come off as planned. Then, at the moment of greatest excitement, he, being probably the man the servants saw—shot through the bay window and killed Mr. Appleby. You were fortunate, Miss Maida, that you weren’t hit first!” “Oh, I was in no danger. I sat well back in the window-seat, and over to one side, out of range of a shot from outside. And, too, Mr. Keefe, I can scarcely discuss this matter of the shot from outside, as I am, myself, the confessed criminal.” “Confessing only to save me from suspicion,” said her father, with an affectionate glance. “But it won’t do any good, dear. I take the burden of the crime and I own up that I did it. This man on the veranda—if, indeed, there was such a one, may have been any of the men servants about the place, startled by the cry of fire, and running to assure himself of the safety of the house and family. He, doubtless, hesitates to divulge his identity lest he be suspected of shooting.” “That’s all right,” declared Fibsy, “but if it was one of your men, he’d own up by this time. He’d know he wouldn’t be suspected of shooting Mr. Appleby. Why should he do it?” “Why should anybody do it, except myself?” asked Dan Wheeler. “Not all the detectives in the world can find any one else with a motive and opportunity. The fact that both my wife and daughter tried to take the crime off my shoulders only makes me more determined to tell the truth.” “But you’re not telling the truth, dad,” and Maida looked at him. “You know I did it—you know I had threatened to do it—you know I felt I just could not stand Mr. Appleby’s oppression of you another day! And so—and so, I——” “Go on, Miss Wheeler,” urged Stone, “and so you—what did you do?” “I ran across the den to the drawer where father keeps his pistol; I took it and shot—then I ran back to the window-seat——” “What did you do with the pistol?” “Threw it out of the window.” “Toward the right or left?” “Why, I don’t know.” “Try to think. Stand up there now, and remember which way you flung it.” Reluctantly, Maida went to the bay window, and stood there thinking. “I don’t know,” she said, at last. “I can’t remember.” “It doesn’t matter,” said Keefe. “I think we can prove that it was none of the Wheelers, but there was a man, an intruder, on the veranda who shot. Even if we never find out his identity, we may prove that he was really there. Where is this maid who saw him clearly? Rachel—is that her name?” “That’s a pretty thing, too!” Fibsy spoke up. “She has flew the coop.” “Gone! Where?” Keefe showed his disappointment. “Nobody knows where. She just simply lit out. Even her lover doesn’t know where she is.” “Who is her lover?” “Fulton, the chauffeur. He’s just about crazy over her disappearance.” “Oh, she’ll return,” surmised Stone. “She became frightened at something and ran off. I think she’ll come back. If not, we’ll have to give chase. We must find her, as she’s the principal witness of the man on the veranda. Cook is not so sure about him.” “Who could he have been?” Keefe said. “Doubtless some enemy of Mr. Appleby, in no way connected with the Wheelers.” “Probably,” agreed Stone. “We found the pistol, you know, Mr. Keefe,” remarked Fibsy. “You did! Well, you have made progress. Where was it?” “In the fern bed, not far from the veranda railing.” “Just where the man would have thrown it!” exclaimed Keefe. “Or where I threw it,” put in Daniel Wheeler. “I’d like to see the exact place it was found,” Keefe said. “Come on, I’ll show you,” offered Fibsy and the two started away together. “Here you are,” and Fibsy showed the bed of ferns, which, growing closely together, made a dense hiding place. “A wonder you ever found it,” said Keefe. “How’d you happen to?” “Oh, I just snooped around till I came to it. I says to myself, ‘Either the murderer flung it away or he didn’t. If he did, why it must be somewheres,’ and it was.” “I see; and does Mr. Stone think the finding of it here points to either of the Wheelers?” “Not necess’rily. You see, if the man we’re looking for did the shooting, he’s the one who threw the pistol in this here fern bed. And, you know yourself, it’s more likely a man threw this farther than a woman.” “Miss Wheeler is athletic.” “I know, but I’m convinced that Miss Wheeler didn’t do the deed. Ain’t you?” “Oh, I can’t think she did it, of course. But it’s all very mysterious.” “Not mysterious a bit. It’s hard sleddin’, but there ain’t much mystery about it. Why, look a-here. If either the father or daughter did it, they both know which one it was. Therefore, one is telling the truth and one isn’t. It won’t be hard to find out which is which, but F. Stone, he’s trying to find some one that’ll let the Wheelers both out.” “Oh, that’s his idea? And a mighty good one. I’ll help all I can. Of course, the thing to do is to trace the pistol.” “Oh, it was Mr. Wheeler’s pistol, all right.” “It was!” Keefe looked dismayed. “Then how can we suspect an outsider?” “Well, he could have stolen Mr. Wheeler’s pistol for the purpose of casting suspicion on him.” “Yes; that’s so. Now to find that Rachel.” “Oh, do find her,” Maida cried, overhearing the remark as she and Genevieve crossed the lawn toward Keefe and Fibsy. The lad had not yet seen Miss Lane and he frankly admired her at once. Perhaps a sympathetic chord was struck by the similarity of their natures. Perhaps they intuitively recognized each other’s gay impudence, for they engaged in a clash of words that immediately made them friends. “Maybe Rachel’d come back if she knew you were here,” he said. “I’m sure she’d admire to wait on such a pretty lady.” “Just tell her that you saw me,” Genevieve said, “and I’ll be glad to have her back. She’s a first-class ladies’ maid.” “Oh, then she only waits on first-class ladies?” “Yes; that’s why she’s so fond of me. Do hunt her up.” “Well, cutie, just for you, I’ll do that same. Where shall I go to look for her?” “How should I know? But you keep watch of Fulton, and I’ll bet he gets some word from her.” “Yes, they’re sweethearts. Now, how do sweethearts get word to each other? You ought to know all about sweethearting.” “I don’t,” said Genevieve, demurely. “Pshaw, now, that’s too bad. Want me to teach you?” “Yes—if you don’t mind.” “Saunter away with me, then,” and the saucy boy led Miss Lane off for a stroll round the grounds. “Honest, now, do you want to help?” he asked. “Yes, I do,” she asserted. “I’m downright fond of Maida, and though I know she didn’t do it, yet she and her father will be suspected unless we can find this other person. And the only way to get a line on him, seems to be through Rachel. Why do you suppose she ran away?” “Can’t imagine. Don’t see how she could get scared.” “No; what would scare her? I think she’s at some neighbor’s.” “Let’s you and me go to all the neighbors and see.” “All right. We’ll go in the Wheelers’ little car. Fulton will take us.” “Don’t we get permission?” “Nixy. They might say no, by mistake for a yes. Come on—we’ll just hook Jack.” To the garage they went and easily persuaded Fulton to take them around to some of the neighboring houses. And at the third one they visited they found Rachel. A friend of hers was a maid there, and she had taken Rachel in for a few days. “Why did you run off?” queried Fulton. “Oh, I don’t know,” and Rachel shuddered. “It all got on my nerves. Who’s over there now?” “Just the family, and the detectives and Mr. Keefe,” Fulton answered. “Will you come home?” “She will,” Fibsy answered for her. “She will get right into this car and go at once—in the name of the law!” he added sternly, as Rachel seemed undecided. Fibsy often used this phrase, and, delivered in an awe-inspiring tone, it was usually effective. Rachel did get into the car, and they returned to Sycamore Lodge in triumph. “Good work, Fibs,” Stone nodded his approval. “Now, Rachel, sit right down here on the veranda, and tell us about that man you saw.” The girl was clearly frightened and her voice trembled, but she tried to tell her story. “There’s nothing to fear,” Curtis Keefe said, kindly. “Just tell slowly and simply the story of your seeing the man and then you may be excused.” She gave him a grateful look, and seemed to take courage. “Well, I was passing the veranda——” “Coming from where and going where?” interrupted Stone, speaking gently. “Why, I—I was coming from the—the garage——” “Where you had been talking to Fulton?” “Yes, sir.” “All right, go on.” “And I was going—going to go up to Mrs. Wheeler’s room. I thought she might want me. And as I went by the veranda, I saw the man. He was a big man, and he carried a bugle.” “He didn’t blow on it?” “No, sir. Just waved it about like.” “You didn’t see that he had a pistol?” “I—I couldn’t say, sir.” “Of course you couldn’t,” said Keefe. “Men with pistols don’t brandish them until they get ready to shoot.” “But you saw this man shoot?” went on Stone. “Yes, sir,” Rachel said; “I saw him shoot through the bay window and then I ran away.” Whereupon, she repeated the action at the conclusion of her statement, and hurried away. “Humph!” said Fleming Stone. |
|
