  It was after luncheon, in the library, that Pennington Wise began his real business of the investigation of the Varian mysteries. First of all, he desired to look over the papers in Mr Varian’s desk, and with the assistance of Granniss, he was soon in possession of the principal facts to be learned that way. Moreover, he discovered some things not yet taken into consideration by the local detectives, and he read with interest a number of letters that were carefully filed, apparently for preservation. Rapidly he scanned them and tossed them aside, retaining a few for further consideration. “I think, Mrs Varian,” he said, at last, “that a most important fact in the case is the strange bequest of the Varian pearls to your husband’s niece instead of to his daughter. Can you explain this?” “I cannot,” said Minna, “it seems to me absolutely unexplainable. For generations those pearls have descended from parent to child,—sometimes a mother owned them, sometimes a father, but they were always given to the oldest daughter, or, if there were no daughter, then to a son. Only in case of a childless inheritor did they go to a niece or nephew. Why my husband should so definitely bequeath them to his niece,—I cannot imagine. I’ve thought over that for hours, but I can’t understand it I will say frankly, that Betty and her father frequently had differences of opinion, but nothing more than many families have. They were really devoted to one another, but both were of decided, even obstinate nature, and when they disagreed they were apt to argue the matter out, and as a result of it, they did sometimes lose their temper and really quarreled. But it always blew over quickly and they were good friends again. I never paid any attention to their little squabbles, for I knew them both too well to think they were really at enmity. But this matter of the pearls looks as if my husband had a positive dislike for the child, and as a mark of spite or punishment left the pearls away from her. It makes little difference, if—if——” “Don’t think about that, Mrs Varian,” said Wise, kindly; “I’m considering this strange clause of Mr Varian’s will from the viewpoint of the whole mystery. It may prove a clue, you see. I want to say, right now, that the whole affair is the greatest and most baffling puzzle I have ever known of. The disappearance of your daughter and the death of your husband offer no solution that seems to me possible,—let alone probable. I can set up no theory that does not include a secret passage of some sort. And though I am emphatically informed there is none, yet, as you may imagine, I must investigate that for myself.” “I’ve found the house plans,” said a low, thin little voice, and the strange girl, Zizi, appeared in the room. That slender little wisp of humanity had an uncanny way of being present and absent, suddenly, and without explanation. She was there, and then she wasn’t there,—but her goings and comings were so noiseless and unobtrusive that they were never noticed. Pennington Wise held out his hand without a word. Zizi gave over a bulky roll of papers and subsided. Unrolling the time-yellowed sheets, they saw that they really were the old contractor’s plans of the house. With a sigh of satisfaction Wise commenced to study them,—Granniss looking over his shoulder. Minna sat quietly, her nervousness lost in her eager anticipation of the new detective’s successful quest. The two men studied the plans carefully. “I wish North could see these,” Rodney said; “he’s of an architectural bent, Mr Wise, and he measured the house all over, trying to find an unexplained bit of space. According to these plans, North is right, and there isn’t any.” “I’m of an architectural bent myself,” Wise smiled, “and I agree, there’s no foot of room left unaccounted for on these papers. Of course a secret passage could have been built in, in contradiction of the plans, but I can’t think there is any such, after your own search. It might be out-of-doors?” “But we would have seen anyone going in or out of the house,” Minna explained. “We were all watching.” “The back doors?” “There’s only one,” Rodney told him. “And that was locked on the inside. Locked and bolted. No, whatever happened, nobody came in through the kitchen.” “Do you assume an intruder, then, Mr Wise?” Minna asked. “I am obliged to, Mrs Varian. To begin with the only fact we can positively affirm, Mr Varian was shot,—and not by his own hand. This we assume because of the absence of the weapon. Now, either Miss Betty shot him or someone else did. I can’t think the daughter did it, for it’s against the probabilities in every way,—though, of course, it’s a possibility. But the difficulties in the way of explaining what the girl did with herself afterward, seem to me greater than the objections to assuming an intruder from outside. I mean from outside the family,—not from outside the house. The explanation of his entrance and exit is no more of a puzzle than the explanation of Miss Varian’s exit. And I think we must dismiss the idea that the girl concealed herself in this house,—whether alive or—a suicide.” “The girl didn’t do it,” came Zizi’s low murmur. She was sitting on an ottoman, near Minna, and now and then she caressed the hand of her hostess. “There’s a big mind at the back of all this. And you’re overlooking the death of the maid last night Why, Penny, it’s all of a piece.” “Yes”; and Wise roused himself from a brown study. “It is all of a piece, and it hinges on that bequest of the Varian pearls.” “Hinges on that?” said Zizi. “I mean that’s a key to the situation. When we learn why Mr Varian made that strange arrangement, we’ll be on our way to a solution of the mystery. But the first thing is to find Miss Varian.” “Oh, Mr Wise,” Minna cried out, “you think she is alive——” “I very much hope so, and though I don’t want to give you false encouragement, I can’t help feeling that she may be,” “Yes, she is,” came Zizi’s quiet assurance, and Minna impulsively kissed her. “What a comfort you are!” she exclaimed; “elf, pixie,—I don’t know what to call you,—but you bring me courage and hope.” Zizi’s great dark eyes gave appreciation, but she only said, “You’re up against it, Penny.” “I am, indeed,” Wise said, very gravely; “and my first work must be a deep investigation of all Mr Varian’s affairs. You were entirely in his confidence, Mrs Varian?” “Oh, yes; we had no secrets from one another. He told me all his financial ventures or business worries. There were none of those of late, but years ago, there were some. Yes, I may say I know everything that ever happened to my husband.” “Then who has been blackmailing him of late, and what for?” “Blackmail!” Minna looked blank. “Never such a thing as that has happened to my husband!” She spoke proudly and positively. “You know of no one who had a hold over Mr Varian,—or thought he had,—and who wrote him threatening letters?” “Most assuredly not! And I know that nothing of the sort ever did occur, for he would most certainly have told me. We were more confidential than most married people, and we never had secrets from one another.” “Well, perhaps I am over-imaginative.” “What made you think it?” asked Minna, curiously; “if you have found any letters you can’t explain, show them to me,—I can doubtless tell you about them.” After a moment’s hesitation, Wise handed her a letter. It bore neither date nor address, but it read,
This brief message was signed “Step.” and Minna read it with a look of utter perplexity. “I don’t know what it means,” she said, handing it back, “but I’m sure it’s of no importance. Mr Varian never robbed a woman in his life! The very idea is too absurd to consider. You are at liberty to hunt it down, Mr Wise, but you will never find it has a meaning that will reflect on my husband’s stainless honor! You may refer to any of his friends, his relatives or his business associates. All will tell you that Frederick Varian and dishonesty are contradictory terms!” “That may all be true, Mrs Varian, and doubtless is true, but you know blackmailers are not so scrupulous, and they sometimes find a peg to hang their demands on even in the case of the most upright. This note is undated, but the envelope shows it was mailed less than six months ago. Therefore the matter may be still unsettled, and may have a bearing on the whole case. Could there have been any family reason that would influence him to leave the pearls away from his daughter?” “Oh, no! His brother and sister-in-law were quite as much surprised as I was to learn of that. But, Mr Wise, what do you think about this matter of the kidnappers asking for ransom? Do you think it is all a fraud?” “I’m going to look into that as soon as I can. At first glance, it seems fraudulent, but the wonder is that you haven’t had similar letters from other fakers. However, I am going to work backward. I want, first of all to look about a bit, for evidences or clues regarding last night’s tragedy. I am sure the whole string of horrors is a connected one, and to find out who killed poor Martha, will in my opinion be a stepping-stone to the solution of the other mysteries.” “There’s a clue for you, then,” Zizi said, not moving from her seat, but pointing to a spot on the rug near the safe. Wise’s eyes followed her finger’s direction and saw a slight mark, as of a dusty footprint. In a moment, he was on his knees near it, and scrutinized it carefully. “I’ve heard of footprint clues,” said Granniss, interested, “but that is so vague and imperfect, I don’t think you can deduce who made it,—can you?” “Not from the print,——” Wise said,—thoughtfully, and then added nothing to his unsatisfactory statement. He then took a paper-cutter from the desk, and scraped onto a bit of smooth paper what dust he could get from the footprint, and carefully folded it up and put it in his pocketbook. “What shoes were you wearing when you visited the safe last night, Mrs Varian?” he asked. “Bedroom slippers,” she replied. “Had you walked anywhere except to traverse the halls and stairs, from your bedroom down here?” “No, nowhere else.” “And you took that package of money up to your room with you?” “Yes.” “Had you not done so, it would have been stolen,” Wise said, calmly. “A thief visited this safe after you were here,—he thought the money was here. He was surprised by the maid, Martha, coming down to spy on him,—and in order to get rid of her,—and save himself, he strangled her.” All present stared at him, and Rodney Granniss flushed a deep red. “To a disinterested observer, Mr Wise,” he said, “it might easily appear that I was that thief. I knew the money had been put in the safe. I did not know Mrs Varian had removed it. I——” “Look here,” interrupted Zizi, “you talk too much! If you’re going to be suspected, for the love of cheese, let somebody else do it! Don’t meet trouble half way, and sing out, ‘Pleased to meetcha!’ Be careful, Mr Granniss.” “Hush up, Zizi,” Wise counseled her. “Children should be seen and not heard.” “All right, Penny, I’ll be good. Now, here’s a present for you.” She gave him the yellow beads given her by the cook. “Divulge,” he said, briefly, as he stared at the tiny objects in his palm. But Minna Varian had caught sight of them and had recognized them. “Oh!” she cried, “Betty! Betty! Those are the beads she had on that day! Where did you get them? Where did they come from?” And then, before they could answer her, her over-wrought nerves gave way, her calm broke through the constraint she had put upon it, and she became hysterical. Granniss went at once for Mrs Fletcher, and the nurse took her patiently away. “She’ll be all right with Fletcher,” Rodney said, returning after he had assisted Minna to her room; “it won’t be a very bad attack, nurse thinks. Really, I’ve been surprised that Mrs Varian has kept up as well as she has. Now, Mr Wise, tell me what you suspect regarding Mr Varian? And also, tell me if you suspect me—in any way. I plead not guilty,—and I want to add that Miss Varian and I are sweethearts. We couldn’t call it an engagement for her father wouldn’t hear of such a thing. But we hoped to persuade him in time,—and truly, I thought he would finally consent. I’m telling you this, so you can see what a deep interest I have in the recovery of Betty,—for I am not willing to believe she is dead. In fact, I believe she has been kidnapped, and though I’m not sure those letters Mrs Varian has received are in good faith,—yet I believe she is being held for ransom.” “By whom?” asked Wise. “By the kidnapper——” “Who also is the——” “Blackmailer!” said Zizi, in an awestruck voice. “Oh, Penny Wise, how you do jump at a solution! You just clear all intervening obstacles, and land on the truth!” “I’m far from having landed,” said Wise, ruefully; “that’s all theory,—with very little fact to back it up.” “Well, these beads are facts,” Zizi said. “They’re two more, Penny, from the same string that you already have a few from. You see, Mr Granniss,” she said, turning to Rod, “Mr Wise discovered a few of these beads in the kitchen this morning, and a little later, I found that the cook had picked up two in the kitchen the day after Miss Betty’s disappearance. The string of them that she wore was not a long one, but still there were at least a dozen or so more than we have found. Where are they?” She had turned again to Wise as she put this question. “I know the beads well,” Granniss said, “but how did they get in the kitchen?” “It may be a simple matter,” Wise responded. “Perhaps the string broke when she was out there getting the lemonade. I understand all the servants were away.” “But, Penny,” Zizi reminded him, “in that case the other beads would be about, somewhere. She would have picked them up and put them in a box or something.” “Yes, she would,” Rodney agreed, “for Betty loved that necklace. She loved anything yellow. You’ve heard about the yellow pillow?” “No,” said Wise. “Do try, Mr Granniss, to tell me everything. I was called to this case altogether too late. Much could have been done had I been here sooner. But, now tell me every little thing you can think of.” So Granniss told them of the finding of the yellow satin sofa-pillow in the middle of the kitchen floor. He obtained the pillow from the hall and showed it to them. Zizi scrutinized it with her eager black eyes, and carefully extracted from its embroidered design a small fine hairpin. “An invisible,” she said, holding it up to the light. “Betty’s,—I daresay?” “Yes,” and Granniss looked at it. “She wore dinky little ones like that in her front hair. All girls do, I guess.” “It may mean something or nothing,” Wise said, musingly. “If Miss Varian was in the habit of lying on the hall sofa, the hairpin may have been caught in the cushion some time ago.” “I don’t know,” Granniss said; “I never was here while—when Betty was here.” “Well, aside from the hairpin, what about the yellow pillow, on the kitchen floor, Penny?” Zizi asked, looking up into the detective’s face as at an oracle. “It’s a clue, all right,” Wise said; “oh, if I’d only been here that very day! A most astounding case, and every possible evidence wiped out!” “Oh, no, not that,” Zizi spoke cheerfully. “And now, as you say, you must get busy in the matter of poor Martha. What about the green streak?” “Yes,” the detective spoke to Rodney. “There was a dull green smear across the palm of that girl’s left hand. I see no freshly painted furniture in this room.” “No, there wouldn’t be,” Zizi ruminated. “And it wasn’t paint,—you know it wasn’t.” “It looked like paint, and what else would remain there so indelibly?” “What could it be anyway?” queried Granniss. “What do you suggest?” “I can’t think, myself,” and Wise looked nonplussed. “I smelled it, but there was no odor of paint. Nobody around the house uses water colors, I suppose?” “No,” said Granniss. “It was such a smear as might have been made by a paint brush filled with a dull green watercolor pigment,—but I don’t say it was that.” “It was more like a vegetable stain,” Zizi suggested. “A mark like that could have been made, by grasping a dish or saucepan that had held spinach.” “Oh, come now, Zizi, that’s a little far-fetched.” “Not if we find cold spinach in the refrigerator,” Zizi persisted. “Martha might have been getting something to eat.” “In that case the green smear doesn’t count for much,” Wise said. “But we have accumulated some clues. We have the yellow beads, the yellow pillow, the green streak, and last, but by no means least, the dust I scraped from the floor in this room.” “Explain the significance of that, won’t you?” asked Granniss. “Or are you one of those secretive detectives?” “Not at all. That dust is, to my mind, from the shoe of the man who tried to rob this safe last night, thinking that money was in it. Now, I admit, Mr Granniss, that you knew, or thought you did, that the money was there; you knew the combination; you are quite strong enough to have strangled a woman who surprised you at your job; yet I know you didn’t have anything to do with the attempted robbery, because——” “Because you love Betty!” Zizi said, softly, her eyes shining with sympathy and understanding. “Right you are, Wise, go on.” “Also, because,” Wise went on, “because, I’m sure that is the footprint of the would-be burglar, and while the footprint as a print is too indistinct to be a clue to the man who made it, yet the dust that forms the print is indicative. It is a fine dust made up of particles of cement. I mean such dust as would adhere to a shoe that had traversed a cement floor, and, more likely an imperfect cement floor.” “That means the cellar!” Rodney cried; “I’ve been down there a lot of late, poking around for that everlasting secret passage, and there’s a lot of loose cement.” Wise gave him a quick glance, but his enthusiasm was so genuine, that the detective dismissed a sudden qualm of suspicion. “Slip down and get me a sample, will you?” he said, and Granniss went at once. “Big case, Zizi,” Wise said, as the two were left alone. But he spoke heavily, almost despairingly, and with no show of his usual exultant interest in a big case. “Yes, but,” the black eyes turned hopefully to his own, “there are tangible clues. And those of Betty’s can wait. Do you chase those that have to do with Martha first.” “I certainly shall. Martha was killed by the burglar. Did he kidnap Betty?” “And kill Mr Varian?” Zizi added, and then Granniss returned. He brought a little cellar floor dust in a paper, and, as Wise had expected, that and the particles he had scraped from the library rug, were indubitably the same. “Well, then,” Wise remarked, “the burglar came up from the cellar.” “Where he had been hiding, goodness knows how long!” Rodney exclaimed. “For we locked the house securely before we went upstairs.” “I think it’s time I took a look at the cellar,” said Wise, and all three started down. |
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