The Best of Mary Roberts Rinehart

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  "The rich ought to be good," he said wistfully. "They have so much that is beautiful, and beauty is ennobling. And yet--while I ought to say nothing but good of the dead--Mr. Armstrong saw nothing of this fair prospect. To him these trees and lawns were not the work of God. They were property, at so much an acre. He loved money, Miss Innes. He offered up everything to his golden calf. Not power, not ambition, was his fetish: it was money." Then he dropped his pulpit manner, and, turning to me with his engaging smile: "In spite of all this luxury," he said, "the country people here have a saying that Mr. Paul Armstrong could sit on a dollar and see all around it. Unlike the summer people, he gave neither to the poor nor to the church. He loved money for its own sake."

  "And there are no pockets in shrouds!" I said cynically.

  I sent him home in the car, with a bunch of hot-house roses for his wife, and he was quite overwhelmed. As for me, I had a generous glow that was cheap at the price of a church carpet. I received less gratification--and less gratitude--when I presented the new silver communion set to St. Barnabas.

  I had a great many things to think about in those days. I made out a list of questions and possible answers, but I seemed only to be working around in a circle. I always ended where I began. The list was something like this:

  Who had entered the house the night before the murder?

  Thomas claimed it was Mr. Bailey, whom he had seen on the foot- path, and who owned the pearl cuff-link.

  Why did Arnold Armstrong come back after he had left the house the night he was killed?

  No answer. Was it on the mission Louise had mentioned?

  Who admitted him?

  Gertrude said she had locked the east entry. There was no key on the dead man or in the door. He must have been admitted from within.

  Who had been locked in the clothes chute?

  Some one unfamiliar with the house, evidently. Only two people missing from the household, Rosie and Gertrude. Rosie had been at the lodge. Therefore--but was it Gertrude? Might it not have been the mysterious intruder again?

  Who had accosted Rosie on the drive?

  Again--perhaps the nightly visitor. It seemed more likely some one who suspected a secret at the lodge. Was Louise under surveillance?

  Who had passed Louise on the circular staircase?

  Could it have been Thomas? The key to the east entry made this a possibility. But why was he there, if it were indeed he?

  Who had made the hole in the trunk-room wall?

  It was not vandalism. It had been done quietly, and with deliberate purpose. If I had only known how to read the purpose of that gaping aperture what I might have saved in anxiety and mental strain!

  Why had Louise left her people and come home to hide at the lodge?

  There was no answer, as yet, to this, or to the next questions.

  Why did both she and Doctor Walker warn us away from the house?

  Who was Lucien Wallace?

  What did Thomas see in the shadows the night he died?

  What was the meaning of the subtle change in Gertrude?

  Was Jack Bailey an accomplice or a victim in the looting of the Traders' Bank?

  What all-powerful reason made Louise determine to marry Doctor Walker?

  The examiners were still working on the books of the Traders' Bank, and it was probable that several weeks would elapse before everything was cleared up. The firm of expert accountants who had examined the books some two months before testified that every bond, every piece of valuable paper, was there at that time. It had been shortly after their examination that the president, who had been in bad health, had gone to California. Mr. Bailey was still ill at the Knickerbocker, and in this, as in other ways, Gertrude's conduct puzzled me. She seemed indifferent, refused to discuss matters pertaining to the bank, and never, to my knowledge, either wrote to him or went to see him.

  Gradually I came to the conclusion that Gertrude, with the rest of the world, believed her lover guilty, and--although I believed it myself, for that matter--I was irritated by her indifference. Girls in my day did not meekly accept the public's verdict as to the man they loved.

  But presently something occurred that made me think that under Gertrude's surface calm there was a seething flood of emotions.

  Tuesday morning the detective made a careful search of the grounds, but he found nothing. In the afternoon he disappeared, and it was late that night when he came home. He said he would have to go back to the city the following day, and arranged with Halsey and Alex to guard the house.

  Liddy came to me on Wednesday morning with her black silk apron held up like a bag, and her eyes big with virtuous wrath. It was the day of Thomas' funeral in the village, and Alex and I were in the conservatory cutting flowers for the old man's casket. Liddy is never so happy as when she is making herself wretched, and now her mouth drooped while her eyes were triumphant.

  "I always said there were plenty of things going on here, right under our noses, that we couldn't see," she said, holding out her apron.

  "I don't see with my nose," I remarked. "What have you got there?"

  Liddy pushed aside a half-dozen geranium pots, and in the space thus cleared she dumped the contents of her apron--a handful of tiny bits of paper. Alex had stepped back, but I saw him watching her curiously.

  "Wait a moment, Liddy," I said. "You have been going through the library paper-basket again!"

  Liddy was arranging her bits of paper with the skill of long practice and paid no attention.

  "Did it ever occur to you," I went on, putting my hand over the scraps, "that when people tear up their correspondence, it is for the express purpose of keeping it from being read?"

  "If they wasn't ashamed of it they wouldn't take so much trouble, Miss Rachel," Liddy said oracularly. "More than that, with things happening every day, I consider it my duty. If you don't read and act on this, I shall give it to that Jamieson, and I'll venture he'll not go back to the city to-day."

  That decided me. If the scraps had anything to do with the mystery ordinary conventions had no value. So Liddy arranged the scraps, like working out one of the puzzle-pictures children play with, and she did it with much the same eagerness. When it was finished she stepped aside while I read it.

  "Wednesday night, nine o'clock. Bridge," I real aloud. Then, aware of Alex's stare, I turned on Liddy.

  "Some one is to play bridge to-night at nine o'clock," I said. "Is that your business, or mine?"

  Liddy was aggrieved. She was about to reply when I scooped up the pieces and left the conservatory.

  "Now then," I said, when we got outside, "will you tell me why you choose to take Alex into your confidence? He's no fool. Do you suppose he thinks any one in this house is going to play bridge to-night at nine o'clock, by appointment! I suppose you have shown it in the kitchen, and instead of my being able to slip down to the bridge to-night quietly, and see who is there, the whole household will be going in a procession."

  "Nobody knows it," Liddy said humbly. "I found it in the basket in Miss Gertrude's dressing-room. Look at the back of the sheet." I turned over some of the scraps, and, sure enough, it was a blank deposit slip from the Traders' Bank. So Gertrude was going to meet Jack Bailey that night by the bridge! And I had thought he was ill! It hardly seemed like the action of an innocent man--this avoidance of daylight, and of his fiancee's people. I decided to make certain, however, by going to the bridge that night.

  After luncheon Mr. Jamieson suggested that I go with him to Richfield, and I consented.

  "I am inclined to place more faith in Doctor Stewart's story," he said, "since I found that scrap in old Thomas' pocket. It bears out the statement that the woman with the child, and the woman who quarreled with Armstrong, are the same. It looks as if Thomas had stumbled on to some affair which was more or less discreditable to the dead man, and, with a certain loyalty to the family, had kept it to himself. Then, you see, your story about the woman at the card-room window begins to mean something. It is the
nearest approach to anything tangible that we have had yet."

  Warner took us to Richfield in the car. It was about twenty-five miles by railroad, but by taking a series of atrociously rough short cuts we got there very quickly. It was a pretty little town, on the river, and back on the hill I could see the Mortons' big country house, where Halsey and Gertrude had been staying until the night of the murder.

  Elm Street was almost the only street, and number fourteen was easily found. It was a small white house, dilapidated without having gained anything picturesque, with a low window and a porch only a foot or so above the bit of a lawn. There was a baby- carriage in the path, and from a swing at the side came the sound of conflict. Three small children were disputing vociferously, and a faded young woman with a kindly face was trying to hush the clamor. When she saw us she untied her gingham apron and came around to the porch.

  "Good afternoon," I said. Jamieson lifted his hat, without speaking. "I came to inquire about a child named Lucien Wallace."

  "I am glad you have come," she said. "In spite of the other children, I think the little fellow is lonely. We thought perhaps his mother would be here to-day."

  Mr. Jamieson stepped forward.

  "You are Mrs. Tate?" I wondered how the detective knew.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Mrs. Tate, we want to make some inquiries. Perhaps in the house--"

  "Come right in," she said hospitably. And soon we were in the little shabby parlor, exactly like a thousand of its prototypes. Mrs. Tate sat uneasily, her hands folded in her lap.

  "How long has Lucien been here?" Mr. Jamieson asked.

  "Since a week ago last Friday. His mother paid one week's board in advance; the other has not been paid."

  "Was he ill when he came?"

  "No, sir, not what you'd call sick. He was getting better of typhoid, she said, and he's picking up fine."

  "Will you tell me his mother's name and address?"

  "That's the trouble," the young woman said, knitting her brows. "She gave her name as Mrs. Wallace, and said she had no address. She was looking for a boarding-house in town. She said she worked in a department store, and couldn't take care of the child properly, and he needed fresh air and milk. I had three children of my own, and one more didn't make much difference in the work, but--I wish she would pay this week's board."

  "Did she say what store it was?"

  "No, sir, but all the boy's clothes came from King's. He has far too fine clothes for the country."

  There was a chorus of shouts and shrill yells from the front door, followed by the loud stamping of children's feet and a throaty "whoa, whoa!" Into the room came a tandem team of two chubby youngsters, a boy and a girl, harnessed with a clothes- line, and driven by a laughing boy of about seven, in tan overalls and brass buttons. The small driver caught my attention at once: he was a beautiful child, and, although he showed traces of recent severe illness, his skin had now the clear transparency of health.

  "Whoa, Flinders," he shouted. "You're goin' to smash the trap."

  Mr. Jamieson coaxed him over by holding out a lead-pencil, striped blue and yellow.

  "Now, then," he said, when the boy had taken the lead-pencil and was testing its usefulness on the detective's cuff, "now then, I'll bet you don't know what your name is!"

  "I do," said the boy. "Lucien Wallace."

  "Great! And what's your mother's name?"

  "Mother, of course. What's your mother's name?" And he pointed to me! I am going to stop wearing black: it doubles a woman's age.

  "And where did you live before you came here?" The detective was polite enough not to smile.

  "Grossmutter," he said. And I saw Mr. Jamieson's eyebrows go up.

  "German," he commented. "Well, young man, you don't seem to know much about yourself."

  "I've tried it all week," Mrs. Tate broke in. "The boy knows a word or two of German, but he doesn't know where he lived, or anything about himself."

  Mr. Jamieson wrote something on a card and gave it to her.

  "Mrs. Tate," he said, "I want you to do something. Here is some money for the telephone call. The instant the boy's mother appears here, call up that number and ask for the person whose name is there. You can run across to the drug-store on an errand and do it quietly. Just say, `The lady has come.'"

  "`The lady has come,'" repeated Mrs. Tate. "Very well, sir, and I hope it will be soon. The milk-bill alone is almost double what it was."

  "How much is the child's board?" I asked.

  "Three dollars a week, including his washing."

  "Very well," I said. "Now, Mrs. Tate, I am going to pay last week's board and a week in advance. If the mother comes, she is to know nothing of this visit--absolutely not a word, and, in return for your silence, you may use this money for--something for your own children."

  Her tired, faded face lighted up, and I saw her glance at the little Tates' small feet. Shoes, I divined--the feet of the genteel poor being almost as expensive as their stomachs.

  As we went back Mr. Jamieson made only one remark: I think he was laboring under the weight of a great disappointment.

  "Is King's a children's outfitting place?" he asked.

  "Not especially. It is a general department store."

  He was silent after that, but he went to the telephone as soon as we got home, and called up King and Company, in the city.

  After a time he got the general manager, and they talked for some time. When Mr. Jamieson hung up the receiver he turned to me.

  "The plot thickens," he said with his ready smile. "There are four women named Wallace at King's none of them married, and none over twenty. I think I shall go up to the city to-night. I want to go to the Children's Hospital. But before I go, Miss Innes, I wish you would be more frank with me than you have been yet. I want you to show me the revolver you picked up in the tulip bed."

  So he had known all along!

  "It WAS a revolver, Mr. Jamieson," I admitted, cornered at last, "but I can not show it to you. It is not in my possession."

  CHAPTER XXII

  A LADDER OUT OF PLACE

  At dinner Mr. Jamieson suggested sending a man out in his place for a couple of days, but Halsey was certain there would be nothing more, and felt that he and Alex could manage the situation. The detective went back to town early in the evening, and by nine o'clock Halsey, who had been playing golf--as a man does anything to take his mind away from trouble--was sleeping soundly on the big leather davenport in the living-room.

  I sat and knitted, pretending not to notice when Gertrude got up and wandered out into the starlight. As soon as I was satisfied that she had gone, however, I went out cautiously. I had no intention of eavesdropping, but I wanted to be certain that it was Jack Bailey she was meeting. Too many things had occurred in which Gertrude was, or appeared to be, involved, to allow anything to be left in question.

  I went slowly across the lawn, skirted the hedge to a break not far from the lodge, and found myself on the open road. Perhaps a hundred feet to the left the path led across the valley to the Country Club, and only a little way off was the foot-bridge over Casanova Creek. But just as I was about to turn down the path I heard steps coming toward me, and I shrank into the bushes. It was Gertrude, going back quickly toward the house.

  I was surprised. I waited until she had had time to get almost to the house before I started. And then I stepped back again into the shadows. The reason why Gertrude had not kept her tryst was evident. Leaning on the parapet of the bridge in the moonlight, and smoking a pipe, was Alex, the gardener. I could have throttled Liddy for her carelessness in reading the torn note where he could hear. And I could cheerfully have choked Alex to death for his audacity.

  But there was no help for it: I turned and followed Gertrude slowly back to the house.

  The frequent invasions of the house had effectually prevented any relaxation after dusk. We had redoubled our vigilance as to bolts and window-locks but, as Mr. Jamieson had suggested, we allowed the d
oor at the east entry to remain as before, locked by the Yale lock only. To provide only one possible entrance for the invader, and to keep a constant guard in the dark at the foot of the circular staircase, seemed to be the only method.

  In the absence of the detective, Alex and Halsey arranged to change off, Halsey to be on duty from ten to two, and Alex from two until six. Each man was armed, and, as an additional precaution, the one off duty slept in a room near the head of the circular staircase and kept his door open, to be ready for emergency.

  These arrangements were carefully kept from the servants, who were only commencing to sleep at night, and who retired, one and all, with barred doors and lamps that burned full until morning.

  The house was quiet again Wednesday night. It was almost a week since Louise had encountered some one on the stairs, and it was four days since the discovery of the hole in the trunk-room wall.

  Arnold Armstrong and his father rested side by side in the Casanova churchyard, and at the Zion African Church, on the hill, a new mound marked the last resting-place of poor Thomas.

  Louise was with her mother in town, and, beyond a polite note of thanks to me, we had heard nothing from her. Doctor Walker had taken up his practice again, and we saw him now and then flying past along the road, always at top speed. The murder of Arnold Armstrong was still unavenged, and I remained firm in the position I had taken--to stay at Sunnyside until the thing was at least partly cleared.

  And yet, for all its quiet, it was on Wednesday night that perhaps the boldest attempt was made to enter the house. On Thursday afternoon the laundress sent word she would like to speak to me, and I saw her in my private sitting-room, a small room beyond the dressing-room.

  Mary Anne was embarrassed. She had rolled down her sleeves and tied a white apron around her waist, and she stood making folds in it with fingers that were red and shiny from her soap-suds.

  "Well, Mary," I said encouragingly, "what's the matter? Don't dare to tell me the soap is out."

  "No, ma'm, Miss Innes." She had a nervous habit of looking first at my one eye and then at the other, her own optics shifting ceaselessly, right eye, left eye, right eye, until I found myself doing the same thing. "No, ma'm. I was askin' did you want the ladder left up the clothes chute?"