II
IN ROOM B
Five minutes later the Curator was at the 'phone calling up PoliceHeadquarters. A death had occurred at the museum. Would they send overa capable detective?
"What kind of death?" was the harsh reply. "We don't send detectives incases of heart-failure or simple accident. Is it an accident?"
"No--no--hardly. It looks more like an insane woman's attack upon aharmless stranger. It's the oddest sort of an affair, and we feel veryhelpless. No common officer will do. We have one of that kind in thebuilding. What we want is a man of brains; he will need them."
A muffled sound at the other end--then a different voice asking somehalf-dozen comprehensive questions--which, having been answered to thebest of the Curator's ability, were followed by the welcome assurancethat a man on whose experience he could rely would be at the museum doorswithin five minutes.
With an air of relief Mr. Jewett stepped again into the court, andrepelling with hasty gestures the importunities of the small group of menand women who had lacked the courage to follow the more adventurous onesupstairs, crossed to where the door-man stood on guard over the mainentrance.
"Locked?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. Such were the orders. Didn't you give them?"
"No, but I should have done so, had I known. No one's to go out, and noone's to come in but the detective whom I am expecting any moment."
They had not long to wait. Before their suspense had reached fever-point,a tap was heard on the great door. It was opened, and a young man steppedin.
"Coast clear?" he sang out with a humorous twist of his jaw as he notedthe Curator's evident chagrin at his meager and unsatisfactoryappearance. "Oh, I'm not your man," he added as his eye ran over thewhole place with a look which seemed to take in every detail in aninstant. "Mr. Gryce is in the automobile. Wait till I help him up."
He was gone before the Curator could utter a word, only to reappear in afew minutes with a man in his wake whom the former at first blush thoughtto be as much past the age where experience makes for efficiency as theother seemed to be short of it.
But this impression, if impression it were, was of short duration. Nosooner had this physically weak but extremely wise old man entered uponthe scene than his mental power became evident to every person there.Timorous hearts regained their composure, and the Curator--who in his tenyears of service had never felt the burden of his position so acutely asin the last ten minutes--showed his relief by a volubility quiteunnatural to him under ordinary conditions. As he conducted thedetectives across the court, he talked not of the victim, as mightreasonably be expected, but of the woman who had been found leaning overher with her hand on the arrow.
"We think her some escaped lunatic," he remarked. "Only a demented womanwould act as she does. First she denied all knowledge of the girl. Thenwhen she was made to see that the arrow sticking in the girl's breast hadbeen taken from a quiver hanging within arm's reach on the wall and usedas lances are used, she fell a-moaning and crying, and began to whisperin the poor child's senseless ear."
"A common woman? One of a low-down type?"
"Not at all. A lady, and an impressive one, at that. You seldom see herequal. That's what has upset us so. The crime and the criminal do notseem to fit."
The detective blinked. Then suddenly he seemed to grow an inch taller.
"Where is she now?" he asked.
"In Room B, away from the crowd. She is not alone. A young lady detainedwith the rest of the people here is keeping her company, to say nothingof an officer we have put on guard."
"And the victim?"
"Lies where she fell, in Section II on the upper floor. There was no callto move her. She was dead when we came upon the scene. She does not lookto be more than sixteen years old."
"Let's go up. But wait--can we see that section from here?"
They were standing at the foot of the great staircase connecting the twofloors. Above them, stretching away on either side, ran the two famous,highly ornamented galleries, with their row of long, low archesindicating the five compartments into which they were severally divided.Pointing to the second one on the southern side, the Curator replied:
"That's it--the one where you see the Apache relics hanging high on therear wall. We shall have to shift those to some other place just as soonas we can recover from this horror. I don't want the finest spot in thewhole museum made a Mecca for the morbid and the curious."
The remark fell upon unheeding ears. Detective Gryce was looking, not inthe direction named, but in the one directly opposite to it.
"I see," he quietly observed, "that there is a clear view across. Wasthere no one in the right-hand gallery to see what went on in the left?"
"Not that I have heard of. It's the dullest hour of the day, and not onlythis gallery but many of the rooms were entirely empty."
"I see. And now, what about the persons who were here? How many of themhave you let go?"
"Not one; the doors have been opened twice only--once to admit theofficer you will find on guard, and the other to let in yourself."
"Good! And how many have you here, all told?"
"I have not had time to count them, but I should say less than thirty.This includes myself, as well as two attendants."
With a thoughtful air Mr. Gryce turned in the direction of the fewpersons he could see huddled together around one of the central statues.
"Where are the others?" he asked.
"Upstairs--in and about the place where the poor child lies."
"They must be got out of there. Sweetwater!"
The young man who had entered with him was at his side in an instant.
"Clear the galleries. Then take down the name and address of every personin the building."
"Yes, sir."
Before the last word had left his lips, the busy fellow was halfway upthe marble steps. "Lightning," some of his pals called him, perhapsbecause he was as noiseless as he was quick. Meanwhile the seniordetective had drawn the Curator to one side.
"We'll take a look at these people as they come down. I have been said tobe able to spot a witness with my eyes shut. Let's see what I can do withmy eyes open."
"Young and old, rich and poor," murmured the Curator as some dozenpersons appeared at the top of the staircase.
"Yes," sighed the detective, noting each one carefully as he or she fileddown, "we sha'n't make much out of this experiment. Not one of themavoids our looks. Emotion enough, but not of the right sort. Well, we'llleave them to Sweetwater. Our business is above."
The Curator offered his arm. The old man made a move to take it--thendrew himself up with an air of quiet confidence.
"Many thanks," said he, "but I can go alone. Rheumatism is my trouble,but these mild days loosen its grip upon my poor old muscles." He didnot say that the prospect of an interesting inquiry had much the sameeffect, but the Curator suspected it, possibly because he was feelingjust a little bit spry himself.
Steeled as such experienced officers necessarily are to death in all itsphases, it was with no common emotion that the aged detective entered thepresence of the dead girl and took his first look at this latest victimof mental or moral aberration. So young! so innocent! so fair! Aschoolgirl, or little more, of a class certainly above the average,whether judged from the contour of her features or the niceties of herdress. With no evidences of great wealth about her, there was yetsomething in the cut of her garments and the careful attention to eachdetail which bespoke not only natural but cultivated taste. On her breastjust above the spot where the cruel dart had entered, a fresh andblooming nosegay still exhaled its perfume--a tragic detail accentuatingthe pathos of a death so sudden that the joy with which she had pinned onthis simple adornment seemed to linger about her yet.
The detective, with no words for this touching spectacle, stretched outhis hand and with a reverent and fatherly touch pressed down the lidsover the unseeing eyes. This office done to the innocent dead, he askedif anything had been found to establis
h the young girl's identity.
"Surely," he observed, "she was not without a purse or handbag. All youngladies carry them."
For answer the officer on guard thrust his hand into one of his capaciouspockets, and drawing out a neat little bag of knitted beads, passed itover to the detective with the laconic remark:
"Nothing doing."
And so it proved. It held only a pocket handkerchief--embroidered butwithout a monogram--and a memorandum-book without an entry.
"A blind alley, if ever there was one," muttered Mr. Gryce; and orderingthe policeman to replace the bag as nearly as possible on the spot fromwhich it had been taken, he proceeded with the Curator to Room B.
Prepared to encounter a woman of disordered mind, the appearancepresented by Mrs. Taylor at his entrance greatly astonished Mr. Gryce.There was a calmness in her attitude which one would scarcely expect tosee in a woman whom mania had just driven into crime. Surely lunacy doesnot show such self-restraint; nor does lunacy awaken any such feelings ofawe as followed a prolonged scrutiny of her set but determined features.Only grief of the most intense and sacred character could account for theaspect she presented, and as the man to whom the tragedies of life wereof daily occurrence took in this mystery with all its incongruities, herealized, not without a sense of professional pleasure, no doubt, that hehad before him an affair calling for the old-time judgment which, forforty or more years, had made his record famous in the police annals ofthe metropolis.
She was seated with no one near her but a young lady whom sympatheticinterest had drawn to her side. Mr. Roberts stood in one of the windows,and not far from him a man in the museum uniform.
At the authoritative advance of the old detective, the woman, whose eyehe had caught, attempted to struggle to her feet, but desisted after amoment of hopeless effort, and sank back in her chair. There was nopretense in this. Though gifted with a strong frame, emotion had soweakened her that she was simply unable to stand. Quite convinced ofthis, and affected in spite of himself by her look of lofty patience, Mr.Gryce prefaced his questions with an apology--quite an unusual proceedingfor him.
Whether or no she heard it, he could not tell; but she was quite ready toanswer when he asked her name and then her place of residence--saying inresponse to the latter query:
"I live at the Calderon, a family hotel in Sixty-seventh Street.My name"--here she paused for a second to moisten her lips--"isTaylor--Ermentrude Taylor.... Nothing else," she speedily added ina tone which drew every eye her way. Then more evenly: "You will findthe name on the hotel's books."
"Wife or widow?"
"Widow."
What a voice! how it reached every heart, waking strange sympathiesthere! As the word fell, not a person in the room but stirred uneasily.Even she herself started at its sound; and moved, perhaps, by the depthof silence which followed, she added in suppressed tones:
"A widow within the hour. That's why you see me still in colors, butcrushed as you behold--killed! killed!"
That settled it. There was no mistaking her condition after an expressionof this kind. The Curator and Mr. Gryce exchanged glances, and Mr.Roberts, stepping from his corner, betrayed the effect which her wordshad produced on him, by whispering in the detective's ear:
"What you need is an alienist."
Had she heard? It would seem so from the quick way she roused andexclaimed with indignant emphasis:
"You do not understand me! I see that I must drink my bitter cup to thedregs. This is what I mean: My husband was living this morning--livingup to the hour when the clock in this building struck twelve. I knew itfrom the joyous hopes with which my breast was filled. But with thestroke of noon the blow fell. I was bending above the poor child who hadfallen so suddenly at my feet, when the vision came, and I saw him gazingat me from a distance so remote--across a desert so immeasurable--thatnothing but death could create such a removal or make of him the ghastlysilhouette I saw. He is dead. At that moment I felt his soul pass; and soI say that I am a widow."
Ravings? No, the calm certainty of her tone, the grief, touching depthsso profound it had no need of words, showed the confidence she felt inthe warning she believed herself to have received. Though probably nota single person present put any faith in occultism in any of its forms,there was a general movement of sympathy which led Mr. Gryce to pass thematter by without any attempt at controversy, and return to the questionin hand. With a decided modification of manner, he therefore asked her torelate how she came to be kneeling over the injured girl with her handupon the arrow.
"Let me have a moment in which to recover myself," she prayed, coveringher eyes with her hand. Then, while all waited, she gave a low cry, "Isuffer; I suffer!" and leaped to her feet, only to sink back again inertand powerless. But only for an instant: with that one burst of extremefeeling she recovered her self-control, answering with apparent calmnessthe detective's question:
"I was passing through the gallery as any other visitor might, when ayoung lady rushed by me--stopped short--threw up her arms and fellbackward to the floor, pierced to the heart by an arrow. In a momentI was on my knees at her side with hand outstretched to withdraw thisdreadful arrow. But I was afraid--I had heard that this sometimes causesdeath, and while I was hesitating, that vision came, engulfingeverything. I could think of nothing else."
She was near collapsing again; but being a woman of great nerve, shefought her weakness and waited patiently for the next question. It wasdifferent, without doubt, from any she had expected.
"Then you positively deny any active connection with the strange death ofthis young girl?"
A pause, as if to take in what he meant. Then slowly, impressively, camethe answer:
"I do."
"Did you see the person who shot the arrow?"
"No."
"From what direction would it have had to come to strike her as it did?"
"From the opposite balcony."
"Did you see anyone there?"
"No."
"But you heard the arrow?"
"Heard?"
"An arrow shot from a bow makes a whizzing sound as it flies. Didn't youhear that?"
"I don't know." She looked troubled and uncertain. "I don't remember. Iwas expecting no such thing--I was not prepared. The sight of an arrow--akilling arrow--in that innocent breast overcame me with inexpressiblegrief and horror. If the vision of my husband had not followed, I mightremember more. As it is, I have told all I can. Won't you excuse me? Ishould like to go. I am not fit to remain. I want to return home--tohear from my husband--to learn by letter or telegram whether he is indeeddead."
Mr. Gryce had let her finish. An inquiry so unofficial might easily awaitthe moods of such a witness. Not till the last word had been followed bywhat some there afterward called a hungry silence, did he make use of hisprerogative to say:
"I shall be pleased to release you and will do so just as soon as I can.But I must put one or two more questions. Were you interested in theIndian relics you had come among? Did you handle any of them in passing?"
"No. I had no interest. I like glass, bronzes, china--I hate weapons. Ishall hate them eternally after this." And she began to shudder.
The detective, with a quick bend of his head, approached her ear with thewhispered remark:
"I am told that when your attention was drawn to these weapons, you fellon your knees and murmured something into the dead girl's ears. How doyou explain that?"
"I was giving her messages to my husband. I felt--strange as it may seemto you--that they had fled the earth together--and I wanted him to knowthat I would be constant, and other foolish things you will not wish meto repeat here. Is that all you wish to know?"
Mr. Gryce bowed, and cast a quizzical glance in the direction of theCurator. Certainly for oddity this case transcended any he had had inyears. With this woman eliminated from the situation, what explanationwas there of the curious death he was there to investigate? As he wasmeditating how he could best convey to her the necessity of detaining
her further, he heard a muttered exclamation from the young womanstanding near her, and following the direction of her pointing finger,saw that the strange silence which had fallen upon the room had a cause.Mrs. Taylor had fainted away in her chair.
The Mystery of the Hasty Arrow Page 2
