Eileen willingly promised this, and as Ford went away, the Professor went back to his study, and Eileen sat alone in the living-room, pondering over her troubles.
She sat there again late in the afternoon. She seemed to have two distinct mentalities. One, actuated by her heart, that knew Bingham to be innocent, the other, ruled by her brain, that saw clearly the dire peril he was in, whether innocent or not.
She thought over the scene of the wedding,—the time of the tragedy. She knew Stanford never shot Ethel, yet she knew he could have done so, just as the anthem pealed forth, as the people began to laugh and chat, and she, the maid of honour, stooping to her task, would not have known it. He could not have done it,—and yet, he could,—he said he could,—have done it for the girl he loved. But the idea was too monstrous! How could a man hope for happiness with a girl he loved if he had committed crime to win her? Still, if a man could commit a crime, anything else could be believed of him. She wished she had never let Stanford love her, never let him know she loved him. It was so overwhelming when it came, that great, deep, big love of theirs. Not like any ordinary love. They couldn’t ignore it, or stifle it, or prevent its leaping into life and growing daily, hourly, stronger and bigger. Surely a love like that couldn’t permit crime,—or, couldn’t help permitting it!
And as Eileen thought, as it came home to her, that if Stanford Bingham had committed that awful crime to win her, his great love absolved him, to her at least, whatever other people might think.
And even as she forgave him, fully and freely for anything he might have done, the thought haunted her that he did do it. No matter how much she declared to herself her implicit belief in his innocence, she knew that in her soul there was a doubt. This knowledge did not make her love him less; indeed, it rather, she thought, purified and refined her love for him. Nor did she put these thoughts into words. Her belief in his innocence was just a glow of loving faith and her doubt of it was a dim shadow that might or might not have to be reckoned with.
As Eileen mused, the door-bell rang. Half unheeding, the girl heard Charlotte’s footsteps in the hall as she went to open the street door.
Brought to alertness by a sharp exclamation from the coloured woman, Eileen stepped out into the hall.
“Miss Eily,” and Charlotte’s eyes rolled hysterically, “dis yer’s de lady what looked in de chu’ch winduh! Yas’m, dat she am!”
A beautiful young woman, in fashionable attire, confronted Eileen.
“Miss Randall?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Eileen, too dumfounded to say more.
“May I speak with you a few moments? On a matter of importance.”
“Certainly,” said Eileen, finding her voice at last. “Come into this room, please.”
Leading the way, Eileen preceded the guest into the living-room and closed the door behind them.
The two women looked at each other as if each were taking measure of a foe.
Both were beautiful, both of a dark, alluring type, and not unlike. But Eileen’s hair was soft and lustrous, her eyes eloquent of education and culture, and her soft, dainty house gown refined in cut and colour. The visitor, on the other hand, had shining black hair, brushed in exaggerated modishness; her eyes were brilliant and snapping, and showed hardness and worldly knowledge; while her costume was of loud, bizarre hues and flimsy materials.
As she looked, Eileen had a sudden inspiration. She would make this woman serve her own ends; she would find out what she knew, and would use the knowledge as she chose. She would dominate her by force of a superior nature, greater cleverness, and cannier wisdom.
So, to take the guest at a disadvantage, Eileen said, coldly, “You are Caprice. What can you possibly have to say to me?”
Her plan worked well. As always, the lesser nature was cowed by the greater. The stranger looked at Eileen, surprised and abashed. But only for a moment, then she regained her poise, and added a bit of bravado not noticeable before.
“Yes, I am Caprice,” she said; “at least that name is all I need tell you now. I am here to tell you what I know of the murder in the church, and to ask you if I shall carry my story to the police.”
By a supreme effort, Eileen obeyed her better judgment, though she longed to cry out for the woman’s story.
“Why ask me?” she said, evenly; “why not, if you have anything to tell, go straight to the police with it?”
“You’re a cool one,” and Caprice gave her a look of grudging admiration; “but you’ll sing a different song after you’ve heard me.”
“One moment,” and Eileen forced herself to speak calmly, though her heart was beating wildly, “did you telephone here this morning that you fired that shot?”
“That I did! Are you crazy? Of course I didn’t telephone that! Why should I? But I know who did do it, and I saw him.”
“Then,” and now Eileen had complete mastery over herself, “if you know anything so important as that, I am sure it is your duty to tell the police rather than me.”
“And I am sure it isn’t! Look here, what’s the matter with you? I am here to help you, but if you are so offish, I may go away again.”
“I am in no need of assistance, and if I were, I know where to turn for it”
“Yes, to Stanford Bingham. But you make a mistake, my lady. He is the man that fired that shot, and I saw him.”
“You are not telling the truth,” said Eileen, but she spoke weakly, for though these were the words she had feared, even expected to hear, they came as a shock.
“I am, and what’s more, you know it. Now, look here, drop this high and mighty air of yours, and I will give you some really good advice. As Mr. Bingham is the criminal, call off that sleuth-hound of a detective, and so save yourself the pain and ignominy of having the truth made public. For, if Alan Ford keeps on, he will lay bare secrets that will send Stanford Bingham straight to the electric chair!”
Eileen put up her hand as if to ward off a blow, then swiftly calling on all her nerve force to help her, she rose to the occasion, and looking straight into the bold, black eyes of her visitor, she said:
“You have been sent here to say this. You have been commanded,—coerced, as you were made to telephone here this morning. Now, if you want to keep out of trouble yourself, listen to me, and answer a few questions. Who is the man whom you call husband, who was at Flora Wood last August with Ethel Moulton?”
The question was flung at her so suddenly, that Caprice was caught off guard. “You know that!” she said, with wide eyes.
“Yes, we know all about it, except the name of the man.”
“Henry Miller,” was the answer, given in a flippant tone.
“His real name, I mean.”
“That’s all the name you’ll ever get from me. But, perhaps, you wouldn’t have to go far to learn his real name.”
“Was it Kennedy?”
Caprice laughed. It was a short, insolent laugh, showing her white teeth, and displaying a temper which promised to be troublesome if roused.
“I’m not saying. His name may be Kennedy, and it may not. But it is a matter of no moment to us, now. I’m here to ask you if you’ll call off your detective or if I shall go to the police with the story of the crime as I saw it.”
“As you did not see it! As you are making it up! If you saw the shot, why did you run away, in a motor car, and disappear? Why didn’t you stay and tell what you had seen?”
“Perhaps I don’t want Stanford Bingham suspected, either.” This, said in a low voice, left no doubt as to the meaning intended to be conveyed. It roused Eileen to fury as nothing else could have done. To have Stanford, her Stanford, spoken of thus by a common, fast-looking woman, was more than Eileen could bear.
“Go!” she cried, “go where you please, and tell whom you please! There is no truth in your story! You never saw Stanford Bingham fire that shot, and you know it!”
Eileen’s dark eyes were blazing now. Like a lioness at bay defending her young, so bravery,
courage, and truth gave her strength, and her voice rang with scorn as she added, “Impostor!”
“No,” said Caprice, curiously cool in the face of this outbreak, “no, I am not an impostor. But if you think I am, I do not resent nor wonder at your anger. Perhaps, Miss Randall, it would be better worth your while to make a friend of me rather than an enemy.”
Eileen looked at her wonderingly. “How can I, when you are so unfriendly? And, too, why should I?”
“You don’t trust me?”
“I most certainly do not. If you wish to please me, you will remove yourself from my presence as soon as you can.”
“I have no wish to displease you, so I will go. You are quite willing, then, that I should tell my story to Mr. Somers?”
Eileen wavered. Was she doing wisely to keep up this independent attitude? Oh, if only Alan Ford would come in! An impulse seized her.
“You see,” she said, more ingratiatingly, “I have put this matter wholly in Mr. Ford’s hands, and I can take no step unadvised by him. Would you dare to state your case to him, if I can arrange for it?”
“Are you crazy? I thought you didn’t want Stanford Bingham convicted. Why should I tell Alan Ford the truth? I offer you this; if you will take the case out of Mr. Ford’s hands, I will refrain from telling what I know to anybody. If you do not agree to this, I know Ford will run down the crime, and I shall tell Somers first, in revenge for your not doing as I wish. Is that straight?”
“No, I think it decidedly crooked, and also incomprehensible. I decline your offer, and I warn you I shall tell Mr. Ford all you have said to me.”
“You will be sorry if you do,” and with a strange glance of mingled wistfulness and baffled chagrin, the visitor went away.
CHAPTER XX
The Music of the Choir
THAT same afternoon, Alan Ford met Eugene Hall by appointment at the Country Club. Hall was flattered at the visit of the great detective, and willingly discussed the matter in hand.
“I admit,” said Hall, “that I did suspect Warry Swift, but since you tell me he is innocent, I have no idea which way to look.”
“I just want to ask a few questions about what you may have seen from the choir,” said Ford, in an easy, conversational way; “you have said, I understand, that you saw the bride look up as if frightened, during the ceremony.”
“She was frightened all the time,” said Hall, decidedly. “On the way up the aisle, and during the ceremony, too, Ethel was in terror of her life. I only dimly sensed it at the time, but now I know she fully expected that shot.”
“I’m sure of that, too, from the various warnings she had. You have no suspicion of any one in the choir, Mr. Hall?”
“In the choir! Lord, no! How could that be?”
“And yet the bride glanced up toward the choir, or toward the minister.”
“Yes, she did. But who in the choir could be suspected?”
“No one, definitely, perhaps, but you know the shot entered the brain from above, or at least, its course was slightly downward, and as the choir is a few feet higher than the floor of the church—”
“No, Mr. Ford, you’re on the wrong tack. If the wretch who fired that shot had been in the choir, the rest of us must have known it. It couldn’t be.”
“Perhaps not. How were the different choristers affected? Did you stop singing, any of you?”
“I did, I can tell you! Why, when I saw Ethel fall, I knew at once there was something wrong. I didn’t think she had merely fainted, as some of the men said.”
“Who said that?”
“Let me see: Kennedy, I guess it was. But we were all struck dumb. One or two sang on for a few lines, from sheer force of habit, and then Clements, the organist, stopped playing, and we all went down to the church floor.”
“Did Mr. Kennedy drop his music?”
“No, not that I know of. Farrish dropped his, I remember, and as he picked it up he was staring at the bride, and didn’t know what he was doing. We all acted demented. You see, Mr. Ford, half that choir were rejected suitors of Miss Moulton, and, of course, we were terribly shocked.”
“Of course. Mr. Hall, can I get access to the choir loft at any time?”
“Certainly, Mr. Ford. Come on over there now, if you like. I’ll go with you.”
The two men stopped at the sexton’s for the key of a side door to the church, and went up into the choir loft. Loft is an inappropriate term, as it was merely a small balcony or gallery not more than four feet above the church floor. It was directly behind the pulpit platform, as is usual in Congregational churches.
“Here you are,” said Hall, leading the way. “Now, you see, Mr. Ford, it would be practically impossible for one of us to shoot without the knowledge of the others.”
“Not with an automatic. In fact, the vines and greenery with which this rail was twined, afforded an excellent screen to shoot through, had one been inclined to do so.”
“But who would do it? Not any of us who were fond of her. And as to the others, why?”
“Which of you were ‘fond of her’?”
“Kennedy, Farrish, Porter, and I have all been at different times favoured by Miss Moulton’s preference. You doubtless know she was a coquette, and always had a love-affair on with somebody. No man could resist her fascinations and she was, in a way, a spoiled beauty. I speak of her thus frankly, for I myself loved her deeply two years ago.”
“And you outgrew the affection?”
“Not exactly that, but she threw me over when she had tired of me, and I learned the fickleness of her nature, and naturally lost interest in her.”
“And Mr. Kennedy? Did she throw him over, too?”
“Yes, I believe so. And Farrish and Porter. Oh, we are all her cast-offs. But no one of us, I am sure, felt desperate enough about it to want to kill her! Who is in your mind—Kennedy?”
“Yes.”
“Put him out, then. Hal Kennedy no more did that thing than I did! Why, he stood next to me, and I was looking at him as Ethel fell. I was looking at Ethel, of course, and as she fell I heard Kennedy exclaim, and turned to glance at him. He was trembling and white, but he held his music firmly, and he couldn’t have fired that shot!”
“Where is the music you were using at that time?”
“Here it is,” and going to a cupboard, Hall produced a pile of sheet music. Ford looked it over with interest. There were eight copies of “O, Perfect Love.”
“I’ll take these away with me,” said the detective. “Please say nothing of it to any one. I shall keep them but a short time, and return them uninjured. You’ll not be wanting them soon?”
“No; I shouldn’t think anybody would ever want to be married in this church again.”
“Are these copies of the music belonging to you, individually?”
“No, not these. Sometimes we each have our own copy. But these are all alike and we used any of them. Of course, we’ve sung it before at weddings, but not often. Only about three times since I joined the choir.”
“Have you any opinion as to the criminal in this case, Mr. Hall?”
“Indeed I have! I’m sure it was Bingham himself who did it. I thought at first it was Warry Swift, but now I think it must have been Bingham. It’s awful to think, I know, but who else could it have been? I’m positive, Mr. Ford, it couldn’t have been one of us in the choir, with all due deference to your clever detection. And, own up, now, aren’t you straining every nerve to discover somebody beside Bingham to suspect? Would you get up such a far-fetched and unlikely theory as a shot from the choir, if Bingham were not so definitely involved?”
Hall’s frank honesty was far removed from impertinence or intrusive curiosity, and Ford answered him with equal straightforwardness:
“You are partly right, Mr. Hall. I do want to find a suspect other than Stanford Bingham, but only because I am convinced that Mr. Bingham is not the criminal. It does look black against him, on account of that peculiar will that gives him his fortune, and
because he is said not to have been in love with the lady he married. But I think it was not his hand that fired that shot, and it is my duty to do all I can to prove his innocence.”
“Of course, if you feel that way about it. But there is every motive and opportunity for Bingham and none for anybody else. I don’t consider that the fact of being a rejected suitor of the bride’s is enough to base suspicion on.”
“I don’t either,” returned the detective.
“Then, what else have you got against Kennedy?”
“Nothing definite, I admit. But what I do know must be followed up. I thank you, Mr. Hall, for your help to-day. And I will detain you no longer. I have your word, have I not, to say nothing of my taking this music?”
“Certainly. And I hold you responsible for its safe return, as it is, of course, the property of the choir.”
“Of course, I shall return it safely and promptly.”
* * * *
Alan Ford spent the entire evening studying those eight pieces of music.
Before he began, he heard Eileen’s story of the woman who called on her that afternoon, and who was, doubtless, Caprice. Ford was interested in the recital, but not so much so as Eileen had expected. He seemed a little preoccupied, and anxious to study the sheets of music. At last he excused himself to Eileen and her father, and taking the music with him, went to his own room.
There with a powerful magnifying-glass, he scrutinized every page of every copy, including the outside covers.
At last his patient work was rewarded by discovering small brownish stains on the covers of two of the copies. One copy showed these stains on its front cover, which bore the title of the song, the other copy had a brown stain on the back cover, which was entirely blank of printing.
Over these stains Ford pored for a long time.
“There is no doubt about it,” he said to himself, at last. “But how to prove it! How to bring it home to him! The clever devil! The cold-blooded assassin! And, too, what was his true motive? There’s much to be done yet. I never tackled a harder proposition. But it must and shall be proved. Jim will help me with the finger prints, and then we’ve got him. Only, that thick-headed D. A. will never be convinced!”
The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK® Page 17
