  Inquiry for Keefe brought the information that he had gone to a nearby town, but would be back at dinner-time. Mr. Appleby was also expected to arrive for dinner, coming from home in his motor car. But in the late afternoon a severe storm set in. The wind rose rapidly and gained great velocity while the rain fell steadily and hard. Curtis Keefe arrived, very wet indeed, though he had protecting clothing. But a telephone message from Sam Appleby said that he was obliged to give up all idea of reaching Sycamore Ridge that night. He had stopped at a roadhouse, and owing to the gale he dared not venture forth again until the storm was over. He would therefore not arrive until next day. “Lucky we got his word,” said Mr. Wheeler. “This storm will soon put many telephone wires out of commission.” When Keefe came down at the dinner hour, he found Maida alone in the living-room, evidently awaiting him. “My darling!” he exclaimed, going quickly to her side, “my own little girl! Are you here to greet me?” “Yes,” she said, and suffered rather than welcomed his caressing hand on her shoulder. “Curtis, I told them you would tell them who killed Mr. Appleby.” “So I will, dearest, after dinner. Let’s not have unpleasant subjects discussed at table. I’ve been to Rushfield and I’ve found out all the particulars that I hadn’t already learned, and—I’ve got actual proofs! Now, who’s a cleverer detective than the professionals?” “Then that’s all right. Now, are you sure you can also get father freed?” “I hope to, dear. That’s all I can say at present. Do you take me for a magician? I assure you I’m only an ordinary citizen. But I——” “But you promised——” “Yes, my little love, I did, and I well know that you promised because I did! Well, I fancy I shall keep every promise I made you, but not every one as promptly as this exposure of the criminal.” “But you’ll surely fix it so father can go into Massachusetts—can go to Boston?” “Well, rather! I expect—though you mustn’t say anything about it—but I’ve an idea that you may yet be a governor’s wife! And it wouldn’t do then to have your father barred from the state!” Maida sighed. The hopes Keefe held out were the realization of her dearest wishes—but, oh, the price she must pay! Yet she was strong-willed. She determined to give no thought whatever to Jeffrey, for if she did she knew her purpose would falter. Nor did she even allow herself the doubtful privilege of feeling sorry for him. Well she knew that that way madness lay. And, thought the poor child, sad and broken-hearted though Jeff may be, his sadness and heartbreak are no worse than mine. Not so bad, for I have to take the initiative! I have to take the brunt of the whole situation. The others assembled, and at dinner no word was said of the tragedy. Save for Maida and Jeffrey Allen, the party was almost a merry one. Daniel Wheeler and his wife were so relieved at the disclosure of Maida’s innocence that they felt they didn’t care much what happened next. Fibsy flirted openly with Genevieve and Fleming Stone himself was quietly entertaining. Later in the evening they gathered in the den and Keefe revealed his discoveries. “I felt all along,” he said, “that there was—there must have been a man on the south veranda who did the shooting. Didn’t you think that, Mr. Stone?” “I did at times,” Stone replied, truthfully. “I confess, though my opinion changed once or twice.” “And at the present moment?” insisted Keefe. “At the present moment, Mr. Keefe, your attitude tells me that you expect to prove that there was such a factor in the case, so I would be foolish indeed to say I doubted it. But, to speak definitely—yes, I do think there was a man there, and he was the murderer. He shot through the window, past Miss Wheeler, and most naturally, her father thought she fired the shot herself. You see, it came from exactly her direction.” “Yes;” agreed Keefe, “and moreover, you remember, Rachel saw the man on the veranda—and the cook also saw him——” “Yes—the cook saw him!” Fibsy put in, and though the words were innocent enough, his tone indicated a hidden meaning. But beyond a careless glance, Keefe didn’t notice the interruption and went on, earnestly: “Now, the man the servants saw was the murderer. And I have traced him, found him, and—secured his signed confession.” With unconcealed pride in his achievement, Keefe took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Daniel Wheeler. “Why the written confession? Where is the man?” asked Stone, his dark eyes alight with interest. “Gee!” muttered Fibsy, under his breath, “going some!” Genevieve Lane stared, round-eyed and excited, while Allen and the Wheelers breathlessly awaited developments. “John Mills!” exclaimed Mr. Wheeler, looking at the paper. “Oh, the faithful old man! Listen, Stone. This is a signed confession of a man on his death-bed——” “No longer that,” said Keefe, solemnly, “he died this afternoon.” “And signed this just before he died?” “Yes, Mr. Wheeler. In the hospital. The witnesses, as you see, are the nurses there.” The paper merely stated that the undersigned was the slayer of Samuel Appleby. That the deed was committed in order to free Daniel Wheeler from wicked and unjust molestation and tyranny. The signature, though faintly scrawled, was perfectly legible and duly witnessed. “He was an old servant of mine,” Wheeler said, thoughtfully, “and very devoted to us all. He always resented Appleby’s attitude toward me—for Mills was my butler when the trouble occurred, and knew all about it. He has been an invalid for a year, but has been very ill only recently.” “Since the shooting, in fact,” said Keefe, significantly. “It must have been a hard task for one so weak,” Wheeler said, “but the old fellow was a true friend to me all his life. Tell us more of the circumstances, Mr. Keefe.” “I did it all by thinking,” said Keefe, his manner not at all superior, nor did he look toward Fleming Stone, who was listening attentively. “I felt sure there was some man from outside. And I thought first of some enemy of Mr. Appleby’s. But later, I thought it might have been some enemy of Mr. Wheeler’s and the shot was possibly meant for him.” Wheeler nodded at this. “I thought that, too,” he observed. “Well, then later, I began to think maybe it was some friend—not an enemy. A friend, of course, of Mr. Wheeler’s. On this principle I searched for a suspect. I inquired among the servants, being careful to arouse no suspicion of my real intent. At last, I found this old Mills had always been devoted to the whole family here. More than devoted, indeed. He revered Mr. Wheeler and he fairly worshipped the ladies. He has been ill a long time of a slow and incurable malady, and quite lately was taken to the hospital. When I reached him I saw the poor chap had but a very short time to live.” “And you suspected him of crime with no more evidence than that?” Fleming Stone asked. “I daresay it was a sort of intuition, Mr. Stone,” Keefe returned, smiling a little at the detective. “Oh, I don’t wonder you feel rather miffed to have your thunder stolen by a mere business man—and I fear it’s unprofessional for me to put the thing through without consulting you, but I felt the case required careful handling—somewhat psychological handling, indeed——” “Very much so,” Stone nodded. “And so,” Keefe was a little disconcerted by the detective’s demeanor, but others set it down to a very natural chagrin on Stone’s part. Fibsy sat back in his chair, his bright eyes narrowed to mere slits and darting from the face of Keefe to that of Stone continually. “And so,” Keefe went on, “I inquired from the servants and also, cautiously from the members of the family, and I learned that this Mills was of a fiery, even revengeful, nature——” “He was,” Mr. Wheeler nodded, emphatically. “Yes, sir. And I found out from Rachel that——” “Rachel!” Fibsy fairly shot out the word, but a look from Stone made him say no more. “Yes, Rachel, the maid,” went on Keefe, “and I found that the man she saw on the veranda was of the same general size and appearance as Mills. Well, I somehow felt that it was Mills—and so I went to see him.” “At the hospital?” asked Wheeler. “Yes; some days ago. He was then very weak, and the nurses didn’t want me to arouse him to any excitement. But I knew it was my duty——” “Of course,” put in Stone, and Keefe gave him a patronizing look. “So, against the wishes of the nurses and doctors, I had an interview alone with Mills, and I found he was the criminal.” “He confessed?” asked Stone. “Yes; and though he refused to sign a written confession, he agreed he would confess in the presence of Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Stone. But—that was only this morning—and the doctor assured me the man couldn’t live the day out. So I persuaded the dying man to sign this confession, which I drew up and read to him in the presence of the nurses. He signed—they witnessed—and there it is.” With evident modesty, Keefe pointed to the paper still in Wheeler’s hands, and said no more. For a moment nobody spoke. The storm was at its height. The wind whistled and roared, the rain fell noisily, and the elements seemed to be doing their very worst. Genevieve shuddered—she always was sensitive to weather conditions, and that wind was enough to disturb even equable nerves. “And this same Mills was the phantom bugler?” asked Stone. “Yes—he told me so,” returned Keefe. “He knew about the legend, you see, and he thought he’d work on the superstition of the family to divert attention from himself.” Genevieve gasped, but quickly suppressed all show of agitation. Fibsy whistled—just a few notes of the bugle call that the “phantom” had played. At the sound Keefe turned quickly, a strange look on his face, and the Wheelers, too, looked startled at the familiar strain. “Be quiet, Terence,” Stone said, rather severely, and the boy subsided. “Now, Mr. Keefe,” Fleming Stone said, “you must not think—as I fear you do—that I grudge admiration for your success, or appreciation of your cleverness. I do not. I tell you, very sincerely, that what you have accomplished is as fine a piece of work as I have ever run across in my whole career as detective. Your intuition was remarkable and your following it up a masterpiece! By the way, I suppose that it was Mills, then, who started the fire in the garage?” “Yes, it was,” said Keefe. “You see, he is a clever genius, in a sly way. He reasoned that if a fire occurred, everybody would run to it except Mr. Wheeler, who cannot go over the line. He hoped that, therefore, Mr. Appleby would not go either—for Mr. Appleby suffered from flatfoot—at any rate, he took a chance that the fire would give him opportunity to shoot unnoticed. Which it did.” “It certainly did. Now, Mr. Keefe, did he tell you how he set that fire?” “No, he did not,” was the short reply. “Moreover, Mr. Stone, I resent your mode of questioning. I’m not on the witness stand. I’ve solved a mystery that baffled you, and though I understand your embarrassment at the situation, yet it does not give you free rein to make what seem to me like endeavors to trip me up!” “Trip you up!” Stone lifted his eyebrows. “What a strange expression to use. As if I suspected you of faking his tale.” “It speaks for itself,” and Keefe glanced nonchalantly at the paper he had brought. “There’s the signed confession—if you can prove that signature a fake—go ahead.” “No,” said Daniel Wheeler, decidedly; “that’s John Mills’ autograph. I know it perfectly. He wrote that himself. And a dying man is not going to sign a lie. There’s no loophole of doubt, Mr. Stone. I think you must admit Mr. Keefe’s entire success.” “I do admit Mr. Keefe’s entire success,” Stone’s dark eyes flashed, “up to this point. From here on, I shall undertake to prove my own entire success, since that is the phrase we are using. Mr. Wheeler, your present cook was here when John Mills worked for you?” “She was, Mr. Stone, but you don’t need her corroboration of this signature. I tell you I know it to be Mills’.” “Will you send for the cook, please?” Half unwillingly, Wheeler agreed, and Maida stepped out of the room and summoned the cook. The woman came in, and Stone spoke to her at once. “Is that John Mills’ signature?” he asked, showing her the paper. “It is, sir,” she replied, looking at him in wonder. A satisfied smile played on Keefe’s face, only to be effaced at Stone’s next question. “And was John Mills the person you saw—vaguely—on the south veranda that night of Mr. Appleby’s murder?” “That he was not!” she cried, emphatically. “It was a man not a bit like Mills, and be the same token, John Mills was in his bed onable to walk at all, at all.” “That will do, Mr. Wheeler,” and Stone dismissed the cook with a glance. “Now, Mr. Keefe?” “As if that woman’s story mattered,” Keefe sneered, contemptuously, “she is merely mistaken, that’s all. The word of the maid, Rachel, is as good as that of the cook——” “Oh, no, it isn’t!” Stone interrupted, but, paying no heed to him, Keefe went on; “and you can scarcely doubt the signature after Mr. Wheeler and your friend the cook have both verified it.” Though his demeanor was quiet, Keefe’s face wore a defiant expression and his voice was a trifle blustering. “I do not doubt the signature,” Stone declared, “nor do I doubt that you obtained it at the hospital exactly as you have described that incident.” Keefe’s face relaxed at that, and he recovered his jaunty manner, as he said: “Then you admit I have beaten you at your own game, Mr. Stone?” “No, Mr. Keefe, but I have beaten you at yours.” A silence fell for a moment. There was something about Stone’s manner of speaking that made for conviction in the minds of his hearers that he said truth. “Wait a minute! Oh, wait a minute!” It was Genevieve Lane who cried out the words, and then she sprang from her chair and ran to Keefe’s side. Flinging her arms about him, she whispered close to his ear. He listened, and then, with a scornful gesture he flung her off. “No!” he said to her; “no! a thousand times, no! Do your worst.” “I shall!” replied Genevieve, and without another word she resumed her seat. “Yes,” went on Stone, this interruption being over, “your ingenious ‘success’ in the way of detecting is doomed to an ignominious end. You see, sir,” he turned to Daniel Wheeler, “the clever ruse Mr. Keefe has worked, is but a ruse—a stratagem, to deceive us all and to turn the just suspicion of the criminal in an unjust direction.” “Explain, Mr. Stone,” said Wheeler, apparently not much impressed with what he deemed a last attempt on the part of the detective to redeem his reputation. “Yes, Mr. Stone,” said Keefe, “if my solution of this mystery is a ruse—a stratagem—what have you to offer in its place? You admit the signed confession?” “I admit the signature, but not the confession. John Mills signed that paper, Mr. Keefe, but he is not the murderer.” “Who is, then?” “You are!” Keefe laughed and shrugged his shoulders, but at that moment there was such a blast of wind and storm, accompanied by a fearful crash, that what he said could not be heard. “Explain, please, Mr. Stone,” Wheeler said again, after a pause, but his voice now showed more interest. “I will. The time has come for it. Mr. Wheeler, do you and Mr. Allen see to it, that Mr. Keefe does not leave the room. Terence—keep your eyes open.” Keefe still smiled, but his smile was a frozen one. His eyes began to widen and his hands clenched themselves upon his knees. “Curtis Keefe killed Samuel Appleby,” Stone went on, speaking clearly but rapidly. “His motive was an ambition to be governor of Massachusetts. He thought that with the elder Appleby out of the way, his son would have neither power nor inclination to make a campaign. There were other, minor motives, but that was his primary one. That, and the fact that the elder Appleby had a hold on Mr. Keefe, and of late had pressed it home uncomfortably hard. The murder was long premeditated. The trip here brought it about, because it offered a chance where others might reasonably be suspected. Keefe was the man on the veranda, whom the cook saw—but not clearly enough to distinguish his identity. Though she did know it was not John Mills.” “But—Mr. Stone——” interrupted Wheeler, greatly perturbed, “think what you’re saying! Have you evidence to prove your statements?” “I have, Mr. Wheeler, as you shall see. Let me tell my story and judge me then. A first proof is—Terence, you may tell of the bugle.” “I went, at Mr. Stone’s orders,” the boy stated, simply, “to all the shops or little stores in this vicinity where a bugle might have been bought; I found one was bought in a very small shop in Rushfield and bought by a man who corresponded to Mr. Keefe’s description, and who, when he stopped at the shop, was in a motor car whose description and occupants were the Appleby bunch. Well, anyway—Miss Lane here knows that Mr. Keefe bought that bugle—don’t you?” He turned to Genevieve, who, after a glance at Keefe, nodded affirmation. “And so,” Stone went on, “Mr. Keefe used that bugle——” “How did he get opportunity?” asked Wheeler. “I’ll tell you,” offered Genevieve. “We all staid over night in Rushfield, and I heard Mr. Keefe go out of doors in the night. I watched him from my window. He returned about three hours later.” It was clear to all listening, that when Genevieve had whispered to Keefe and he had told her to do her worst, they were now hearing the “worst.” “So,” Stone narrated, “Mr. Keefe came over here and did the bugling as a preliminary to his further schemes. You admit that, Mr. Keefe?” “I admit nothing. Tell your silly story as you please.” “I will. Then, the day of the murder, Mr. Keefe arranged for the fire in the garage. He used the acids as the man Fulton described, and as Keefe’s own coat was burned and his employer’s car he felt sure suspicion would not turn toward him. When the fire broke out—which as it depended on the action of those acids, he was waiting for, Keefe ran with Mr. Allen to the garage. But—and this I have verified from Mr. Allen, Keefe disappeared for a moment, and, later was again at Allen’s side. In that moment—Mr. Wheeler, that psychological moment, Curtis Keefe shot and killed Samuel Appleby.” “And Mills?” “Is part of the diabolically clever scheme. Mills was dying; he was leaving a large family without means of support. He depended, and with reason, on hope of your generosity, Mr. Wheeler, to his wife and children. But Curtis Keefe went to him and told him that you were about to be dispossessed of your home and fortune, and that if he would sign the confession—knowing what it was—that he, Keefe, would settle a large sum of money on Mrs. Mills and the children at once. And he did.” “You fiend! You devil incarnate!” cried Keefe, losing all control. “How do you know that?” “I found it all out from Mrs. Mills,” Stone replied; “your accomplices all betrayed you, Mr. Keefe. A criminal should beware of accomplices. Rachel turned state’s evidence and told how you bribed her to make up that story of the bugler—or rather, to relate parrot-like—the story you taught to her.” “It’s all up,” said Keefe, flinging out his hands in despair. “You’ve outwitted me at every point, Mr. Stone. I confess myself vanquished——” “And you confess yourself the murderer?” said Stone, quickly. “I do, but I ask one favor. May I take that paper a moment?” “Certainly,” said Stone, glancing at the worthless confession. Keefe stepped to the table desk, where the paper lay, but as he laid his left hand upon it, with his right he quickly pulled open a drawer, grasped the pistol that was in it, and saying, with a slight smile: “A life for a life!” drew the trigger and fell to the floor. From the gruesome situation, its silence made worse by the noise of the storm outside, Daniel Wheeler led his wife and daughter. Jeffrey Allen followed quickly and sought his loved Maida. Reaction from the strain made her break down, and sobbing in his arms she asked and received full forgiveness for her enforced desertion of him. “I couldn’t do anything else, Jeff,” she sobbed. “I had to say yes to him for dad’s sake—and mother’s.” “Of course you did, darling; don’t think about it. Oh, Maida, look! The wind has torn up the sycamore! Unrooted it, and it has fallen over——” “Over into Massachusetts!” Maida cried; “Jeffrey, think what that means!” “Why—why!——” Allen was speechless. “Yes; the sycamore has gone into Massachusetts—and father can go!” “Is that real, Maida—is it truly a permission?” “Of course it is! We’ve got Governor Appleby’s letter, saying so—written when he was governor, you know! Jeffrey—I’m so happy! It makes me forget that awful——” “Do forget it all you can, dearest,” and beneath her lover’s caresses, Maida did forget, for the moment at least. “It’s the only inexplicable thing about it all, Fibs,” Fleming Stone observed, after the case was among the annals of the past, “that the old sycamore fell over and fell the right way.” “Mighty curious, F. Stone,” rejoined the boy, with an expressionless face. “You didn’t help it along, did you? You know the injunction was, ‘without intervention of human hands.’” “I didn’t intervent my hands, Mr. Stone,” said the boy, earnestly, “honest I didn’t. But—it wasn’t nominated in the bond that I shouldn’t kick around those old decaying roots with my foot—just so’s if it should take a notion to fall it would fall heading north!” |
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