  “Where is she?” Milly asked of Hester, as, more out of curiosity than hospitality she went to the kitchen. “Well! Mis’ Landon, I never see such a thing in all my born days! She slid out here like she was on roller-skates! ‘Hester?’ she says, smilin’, and with that she settled herself for good and all, ’sif she’d been born an’ brought up here! She slid to the cupboard, and picked out the tea caddy, and took down a little teapot, and in a jiffy, she’d snatched up the b’ilin’ teakettle, and was settin’ at that there table, drinkin’ her tea! I got her out some cakes, and by then she was a-cuttin’ bread an’ butter! Never’ve I seen her like!” “Did she trouble you?” “Land, no, ma’am! She waits on herself, but so quick, you’d think she was a witch!” “Where is she now?” “Well, ma’am, she finished her tea, and then she fair scooted up the back stairs. I heard her dart into one or two rooms, and then she took the little South gable room for hers. I could hear her stepping about, putting her things away, I make no doubt. She looked in here again, a minute, and said, ‘I’ve chosen that little room with the lattice wall paper,’ and then she disappeared again. That’s all I know about her. No, ma’am, she don’t trouble me none, and I don’t say I don’t sort o’ take to her. But she’s a queer little piece. She is that.” Milly sighed. “Every thing’s queer, Hester,” she said, broodingly, and then she went back to the hall. Wynne Landon sat there alone. His face was grave, and he sighed deeply as his wife came to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Where’s everybody, Wynnsie?” she said cheerily. “Traipsing over the house, hunting clues! Rotten business, Milly.” “Why? What do you mean by that?” “Nothing. I hope if that man is going to find the criminal, he’ll make short work of it!” “So do I, dear, then we can go home, can’t we?” “You bet! Here they are, now,—they seem in good spirits.” The crowd came down the stairs and into the great hall, laughing at some quip of Wise’s. Ever since the day of the two deaths a sombre gloom had pervaded the whole place, and smiles had been few. The sound of laughter came as a shock to the Landons, but the cheery face of Penny Wise betokened only wholesome good nature, and not flippant heartlessness. “Old Montgomery knew how to build a house,” he commented, looking at the finely curving staircase, and its elaborate balusters. “Living rooms nowadays are all very well, but these great entrance halls are finer places to congregate. You spend much of your time here, I’m sure. The worst part is, they’re difficult to light properly,—by daylight, I mean. And, you’ve no electrics here, have you?” “No,” replied Landon, “only kerosene and candles. You see, the place has been unoccupied for years.” “Haunted houses are apt to be,——” “Reputed haunted houses,” corrected the Professor. “There are no others,” and Wise grinned. “All reputed haunted houses have nothing to haunt them but their repute. I mean, the story of their ghost is all the ghost they have.” “But I saw the ghost here,” and Eve spoke with a quiet dignity that defied contradiction. “Of course you did,” Wise assented. “The ghost came purposely to be seen.” “Did you ever see one, Mr. Wise?” “I never did, Miss Carnforth, I never hope to see one! But I can tell you anyhow, I’d rather see than be one.” “Oh, of course, if you’re going to take that tone,” and Eve turned away, decidedly offended. “Sorry!” and Wise flashed a smile at her. “But, you see, a detective can’t afford to believe in ghosts. We make our living solving mysteries, and to say, ‘It was the ghost! You’re right, it was the ghost!’ is by way of begging the question.” “Then you think the phantoms that appeared to some of us were really human beings?” asked Tracy, interestedly. “I sure do.” “And you propose to find out who and how?” said Braye. “If I live up to my reputation, I must do so. There are but two kinds of detectives. Effective detectives and defective detectives. It is the aim of my life to belong to the former class, and here’s my chance to make good. Now, I’ve examined the upper floors, I’ll look over this hall and the ground floor rooms. Shall I have time before dinner, Mrs. Landon?” His charm and pleasant personality had already won Milly’s liking and she said, cordially, “Yes, indeed, Mr. Wise. And if you wish, we’ll delay dinner to suit your pleasure.” “Not at all. Done in a few minutes. Stunning hall, eh, Zizi?” “Yes,” said the thin little voice of the thin little girl, and Milly suddenly realized that Zizi was present with the crowd. The graceful little figure stepped forward and stood at Wise’s side as he looked the hall over. He tapped at the panelled walls, and smiled as he said, “Solid and intact. No secret passage or sliding panel,—of that I’m sure.” “If you’re trying to find a secret entrance into the house, Mr. Wise,” Landon said, “you are wasting your time. I am more or less architecturally inclined, and I’ve tapped and sounded and measured and calculated,—and I can assure you there’s nothing of the sort.” “Good work! That saves me some trouble, I’m sure. Marvellous work on these doors, eh? And the bronze columns,—from abroad, I take it.” “Yes;” Professor Hardwick said, slapping his hand against one of the fluted bronze pillars, “I admire these columns more than the doors even. They’re unique, I don’t wonder their owner ‘built a house behind them.’ I doubt if their match is in America.” “And the locks and bolts are as ponderous as the doors,” commented the detective. “Eh, Zizi?” “They are like that all over the house,” said the girl, in a casual tone. “Even the kitchen quarters are as securely fastened and bolted. And upstairs, any doors that give on balconies are strongly guarded. I have never seen a house more carefully looked after in the matter of barricades.” The girl spoke slowly, as if on the witness stand. Then suddenly her black eyes twinkled, and she turned sharply toward Eve, saying, “Oh, do you do that, too?” “Do what?” cried Eve, angrily. “What do you mean?” “Scribble notes, and pass ’em to somebody. I do, too. It’s a habit I can’t seem to break myself of.” “I didn’t!” and Eve’s face flushed and her eyes glittered with a smouldering fire. “Oh, tra la la,” trilled Zizi, and nonchalantly turned away. “Now for the Room with the Tassels,” said Wise, and led the way to the fateful room. “Ghastly, ghostly and grisly!” he declared after a quick survey, “but no entrance except by door or windows.” “And they were locked every time the room was slept in by any of our party,” announced the Professor, positively. “That makes it easier,” smiled Wise. “You see, I feared secret panels and that sort of thing,—not uncommon in old houses. But you’ve found none?” “None,” asseverated Landon. “If your theory of a human ‘ghost’ is right, you’ve got to account for the forcing of the big bolts of those front doors or——” “Or suspect some of your household,” concluded Wise, practically. “Well, I haven’t suspected any one as yet; I’m just absorbing facts, on which to base my theories. Now, for the drawing room.” The long sombre, old-fashioned room received scant examination. “Nothing doing, Zizi?” said Wise, briefly. “Only a Bad Taste Exhibition,” the girl remarked, making a wry face at the ornate decorations and appointments. Then, with her peculiar, gliding motion, she slid across the hall again, and examined the knob and lock on the door of the Room with the Tassels. “Fascinating room,” she said, with a glance round it. “But horrible,” and her thin shoulders shrugged. “Those tassels are enough to make a hen cross the road!” Milly giggled, and for the first time since the day of the tragedies. Dinner was rather pleasant than otherwise. The detective, laying aside all thought or talk of his purpose there, was entertaining and even merry. He spoke somewhat of himself, and it transpired that he was an artist,—an illustrator of current magazine stories. “And Zizi is my model,” he informed them, “that is, when I want a thin, scarecrow type. I don’t use her for the average peach heroine. Look out Ziz, don’t eat too much of that potato puff! You see, if she puts on a bit of flesh, she runs straight back to the movie studios.” “Ah, a film star?” said Braye. “Not a star,” and Wise shook his head. “But a good little actress for a brat part.” Zizi flashed an amused smile from her black eyes and partook again of the forbidden potato puff. “Zizi! For the love of Mike!” expostulated Wise. “The love of Mike is the root of all evil,” said Zizi, saucily; “but then, everything is.” “Is what?” asked Eve, interested against her will in this strange child. “Is the root of all evil,” was the calm reply. “Whew! this must be an evil old world!” exclaimed Braye. “And isn’t it?” Zizi flashed back, her big eyes sparkling like liquid jet. “Are you a pessimist, little one?” asked the Professor, studying the clever, eerie face. “Nay, nay, Pauline,” and the small, pointed chin was raised a bit. “Not so, but far otherwise.” “Then why do you think the world is evil?” “Ah, sir, when one spends one’s life between a Moving Picture Studio and a popular artist’s studio, one learns much that one had better left unlearnt.” The child face suddenly looked ages old, and then, as suddenly broke into a gay smile: “Don’t ask me these things,” she said, “ask Penny Wise. I’m only his Pound Foolish.” “You’ll put on another foolish pound if you eat any more of that dessert,” growled Wise, scowling at her. “All right, I won’t,” and the slender little fingers laid down the teaspoon Zizi was using. Then, in an audible aside, she added, “Hester will give me more, later,” and chuckled like a naughty child. The next morning Pennington Wise set about his work in earnest. “I’m going to East Dryden,” he announced. “I want to interview the doctors, also Mr. Stebbins. I don’t mind saying frankly, this is the deepest mystery I have ever encountered. If any of you here can help me, I beg you will do so, for the case looks well-nigh hopeless. Ah, there, Zizi.” The girl appeared, ready to go with Wise in the motor car. She wore a small black hat with an oriole’s wing in it, and a full-draped black cape, whose flutterings disclosed an orange-coloured lining. Inconspicuous, save when the cape’s lining showed, Zizi looked distinguished and smartly costumed. A small black veil, delicately adjusted, clouded her sharp little features, and she sprang into the car without help, and nestled into a corner of the tonneau. Only a chauffeur accompanied them, and he could not hear the conversation carried on in low tones. “What about it, Ziz?” murmured Wise, as they passed the aspen grove and the black lake. “Awful doings,” she returned, merely breathing the words. “The Eve girl has a secret, too.” “Too?” “Yes, she isn’t the criminal, you know.” “I don’t know.” “Well, you will know. She’s a queer mechanism, but she never killed anybody.” “Sure, Zizi?” “Sure, oh, Wise Guy. Now, who did do it?” “Well, who did?” “We don’t know yet, and we mustn’t theorize without data, you know.” “Rats! I always theorize without data. And I’ve never failed to corral the data.” “You’re a deuce of a deducer, you are!” “And you’re a She Sherlock, I suppose! Well, oh, Mine of Wisdom, go ahead. Spill it to me.” “Can’t now. I’ve lost my place! But, after a few more interviews with some few more interested parties, I may, perhaps, possibly, maybe,—oh, Penny, look back at the house from here! Did you ever see such a weird, wild spook-pit!” Black Aspens did indeed look repellent. No one was in sight, and the grove of black, waving trees, mirrored in the deep black shadows of the lake gave it all a doomed effect that the dull, leaden sky intensified. The grim old house seemed the right abode for evil spirits or uneasy wraiths, and Zizi, fascinated by the still scene continued to gaze backward until a turn of the road hid it from view. Then she became silent, and would vouchsafe no answer to Wise’s questions or make any remarks of her own. During the interview between the detective and Elijah Stebbins, she said almost nothing, her big eyes staring at the owner of Black Aspens, until the old man writhed in discomfort. “How did you get in?” she shot at him, as he frankly admitted his harmless tricks to give his tenants their desired interest in his house. “I was in, miss,” Stebbins said, nervously twisting his fingers; “I staid there the first night, and ’twas then I moved the old candlestick.” “I don’t mean that,” and Zizi’s eyes seemed to bore through to his very brain, “I mean the night you played ghost.” “Why,—I—that is,—they left a window open——” “They did not!” Zizi shot at him, “and you know it! How did you get in?” But old Stebbins persisted in his story of entrance by an overlooked window. “There’s heaps of windows in that house,” he declared. “Land, I could get in any time I wanted to.” “Sure you could,” retorted Zizi, “but not through a window!” “How, then?” said Stebbins. “That’s what I asked you. I know.” “You know! How do you know?” “Your mama told my mama and my mama told me!” Zizi’s mocking laughter so incensed the old man that he shook with fury. “You don’t know!” he cried, “’cause there’s nothin’ to know! Land! All them folks up there has hunted the place for secret entrances, and I ruther think you have too,” and he nodded at Wise. “I have,” said Wise, frankly, “and I’ve discovered none as yet. But, listen here, friend Stebbins, if there is one, I will find it,—and that’s all there is about that!” Zizi said nothing, having returned to her taciturn rÔle, but the glance she threw at Stebbins, he said afterward, made his blood run cold. “She’s a witch-cat!” he declared to his cronies, when telling the tale, “she ain’t all human,—or I’m a sinner!” On their way to see Dan Peterson, Wise inquired concerning Zizi’s knowledge of a secret way to get into the house. “A small bluff,” she said, carelessly. “I dunno how he got in, I’m sure. But I don’t believe those people left a window conveniently open, unless—they did it on purpose. Who does the locking up, do you know?” “Mr. Landon, I believe.” “Quite so! It’s a pity, isn’t it Pen, how everything appears to wind around back to that nice Mr. Landon!” “Well, what now?” “Well, if he and Stebbins were in cahoots——” “Hold up, Zizi, don’t run away with yourself! You’re a day ahead of the fair. Now, are you going to talk, in here at Peterson’s, or sit like a bump on a log,—smiling at grief?” “I dunno; which would you?” “Talk,” said Wise, succinctly, and Zizi talked. Indeed, she carried on the main part of the conversation, which was exactly what Wise had meant for her to do. She charmed Peterson with her bright, alert air and her pleasant, quick-witted way of putting things. Together they went over the known details, and then she cleverly drew from Peterson his deductions and decisions. At first, inclined to resent the advent of this all-wise detective, he now began to think that if they could work together, he would shine by reflected glory, that is, if the new chap succeeded in solving the mystery, which to him was inexplicable. “I can’t suspect the Thorpes or Mr. Stebbins,” Peterson finally declared: “I did think I could, but though Eli did cut up some tricks, they were harmless and merely in fun. And, too, he has absolute alibis for all the spook appearances after a certain date. And that’s the date when that Miss Carnforth saw a ghost. As near as I can make out, that ghost was Stebbins himself, but no spooks after that was Stebbins’ doings. Now, I give you that straight and simple, Mr. Wise, but it took me a long time to ferret it out. I suspected it, but I’ve had hard work to get Stebbins to admit his tricks, and also to check up his alibis after that particular night.” “These perfectly attested alibis are sometimes manufactured very carefully,” said Zizi, fixing her black eyes on Peterson. “Yes, they are. That’s why I checked up Eli’s so carefully. But they’re all true. I’ve got an exact list of the spook performances from the people at the house. I got the data from different ones, at different times, so’s to be sure they were all there. Then, I looked up Stebbins’ whereabouts on each occasion, and as I tell you, after the night he owns up to playing ghost, he never did it again.” “Then did he arrange for the Thorpes or one of the waiting-maids to do it?” queried Zizi. “That I can’t say. I think he must have done so, but I can’t find a scrap of proof, nor is there any motive. Stebbins is a good old sort and he honestly wanted to give his tenants the ha’nts, as he calls ’em, that they wanted. But why, on this good green earth, he should want to kill two of them is unanswerable. No, take it from me, Eli Stebbins is no murderer. I’ve looked up his record and his life story, and there’s no indication that he knew any of these people before they came up here, so he couldn’t have had any old grudge or family feud or anything of that sort. Stebbins isn’t the criminal, no sir-ee!” “I never thought he was,” said Wise, quietly. “You’ve done good work Mr. Peterson, and you’ve saved me a heap of trouble in getting these facts so undeniably established. I thank you, and I shall be glad of your coÖperation in my further work.” “Good for you, I’ll be right down glad to work with you. And this young lady, Mr. Wise, is she one of us?” “She is us,” returned Wise, simply. “Don’t bother about her, Mr. Peterson, she’s the sort that looks after herself. Report to me, please, if you discover anything new.” |
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