The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Carolyn Wells

  “Don’t, Guy! The waiter will be here in a minute.”

  “Confound the waiter! Eileen, if you don’t let me kiss you, I shall countermand the waiter, and give you no supper.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t! Guy, is that woman really dead? Am I really your wife?”

  “Yes, Eileen, she is dead, and you are my wife.”

  “Then, listen to me. You shall not kiss me, you shall never touch me until you tell me who killed Ethel.”

  “How do I know?” Farrish spoke almost roughly.

  “Tell me the truth,” and Eileen came near him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “The truth, Guy. Don’t attempt to deceive me, for you can’t. And,” here her voice faltered, “if I am your wife I can’t testify against you. So if it was—you—tell me,—dear?”

  Eileen’s arm slipped round his neck. Her face drew nearer his. But even as he grasped her, she drew away. “No, no,” she cried, smiling, “not till you tell me. Was it you? Guy, tell me!”

  No one could have resisted that siren face, that seductive smile, the lure of the great half-closed, dark eyes.

  “Yes!” cried Farrish; “yes, you temptress, you devil! You heavenly beauty, you! Now kiss me!”

  But Eileen sprang away from him. Still smiling, she crossed the room, and spoke calmly: “Well, that’s a weight off my mind. Tell me all about it Don’t let’s have any secrets between us, ever.”

  She returned and sat on the arm of his chair. “Why did you do it?”

  Like a veritable Delilah, her fingers caressed his hair, and almost delirious with her nearness, Farrish talked. “Don’t go away,” he murmured, “and I will tell you all. I know you can’t repeat it, for I am your husband. It was I who took Ethel to Flora Wood last summer. I bribed the Ballou woman to deny it.”

  “Yes,” said Eileen, with dancing eyes, “go on.”

  “Keep your hand on my brow, and I will.” Farrish sat with eyes closed, and Eileen gently touched his forehead with her finger tips.

  “You see, Ethel and I were pretty intimate, and she knew a lot about me.”

  “To your discredit?”

  “Yes. Enough to keep me from being Club President, and to put me down and out generally. I knew if she married Bingham, she’d tell him all this, and it would be all up with me. So I warned her, repeatedly, that if she persisted in marrying him, I’d kill her. There were plenty of other men she might have married, and it would have done me no harm. But Bingham already suspected what I’d done—”

  “What was it, Guy? Anything very bad?”

  “Men would think so. I cheated a bit at cards, and a few things like that”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, that’s all. I told her I’d do it, and I did do it. I’m sorry—for her, but, why, Eileen, I had to, or be ruined myself! I’m ambitious you know, and I foolishly let Ethel know these things, and they had to be hushed up. Bingham would have found them out from her, of course, and he would have put an end to me, so far as my social and business life were concerned. Now, you understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Eileen, “I understand. But, Guy, suppose they suspect you and accuse you.”

  “They can’t; I’ve been too careful. I was afraid of that man Ford at first, but I’ve hoodwinked him. He nearly had me, when he solved the musical cipher, but I wormed out of that.”

  “That was a clever cipher. Did you make it up?”

  “No; somebody showed it to me. I taught it to Ethel, and we used it a lot. I made the notes different from my own transcripts on purpose.”

  “How clever you are!” and Eileen smiled at him, from the corner of her eye. “And did you send Ethel the telegrams, too?”

  “Yes; I gave the girl every chance. She ought not to have defied me. She knew I would keep my word. Poor Ethel!”

  “And were you really married to Caprice?”

  “Yes, I was. I fell in with her when I was at college, and foolishly married her.”

  “As you’ve foolishly married me!” Eileen looked roguish.

  “Oh, you angel! Now I am going to kiss you! Isn’t this grilling nearly over?”

  “Just a minute. Sit still, you bad boy! Tell me where has Caprice been all these years?”

  “Oh, drifting. She never bothered me unless she thought I was going to get married. That’s why she turned up at the church. She was afraid I was the bridegroom instead of Bingham.”

  “And she is dead? I can’t believe it.”

  “Yes; she committed suicide this afternoon, in her apartment in New York. Now, Eileen, I forbid another word of this sort. You are my wife, this is our wedding night! Stop this unpleasant conversation, and tell me you love me.”

  Farrish sprang up from his chair and caught her in his arms. Eileen gave a little scream, and the door, left unlocked for the waiter, flew open. Stanford Bingham strode into the room, and as Farrish’s arms fell to his side in sheer fright and amazement, Bingham clasped Eileen to himself.

  “Oh,” she cried, with a glad little cry, “I thought you’d never come!”

  Bingham was followed by Alan Ford, Somers, and Ferrall.

  “All a plant?” said Farrish, with a sneer, though he was white to the lips.

  “All a plant,” said Somers, cheerfully. “Dictagraph here,” and he showed a receiver behind a picture on the wall. “We in the next room. Stenographer present. All your conversation down in black and white. Good work, eh?”

  Alan Ford was looking at Farrish curiously and a little sadly. He was wondering what manner of man this could be, who could tell the story he had just heard by the device of the concealed dictagraph.

  But Farrish was beaten.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, weakly; “Eileen, you are my wife.”

  “No!” and Eileen’s eyes blazed. “I fooled you! It would have been a despicable thing for any woman to do, with less reason. But I did it for justice—and—for the man I love!”

  Encircled by Bingham’s arm, Eileen stood triumphant and victorious.

  Bingham himself seemed a little dazed. He had heard of the whole scheme only an hour before, and had with difficulty been persuaded to let it go through. Eileen and Ford had planned it in every detail, and even now Bingham seemed to be afraid all was not safe.

  “But you are my wife!” exulted Farrish. “Nothing can alter that! The marriage by a justice of the Peace is as binding as if by a clergyman.”

  Ford looked at Eileen. “You tell him,” she said, as she clung to Bingham; “I can’t.”

  “Miss Randall is not your wife,” said Ford to Farrish; “for Mr. Riddell is not to-day a Justice of the Peace. He was appointed, of course, for four years, and his term of office expired at twelve o’clock. As he married you after midnight, the marriage contract is not legal You have no claim on Miss Randall. Mr. Riddell knew this.”

  Farrish sat silent He knew it to be true. With a cry of rage at Ford, and a look of utter agony at Eileen, he buried his face in his hands.

  “Also,” said Somers, in a low tone, “I accuse you, Mr. Farrish, of the wilful murder of your wife, known as Caprice.”

  “No!” and Farrish started up, wild-eyed, to deny it.

  “There is no use saying anything,” said Somers. “You went to New York this afternoon. You went to her apartment and shot her, that you might be free to marry Miss Randall to-night. You cleverly made it appear that she had committed suicide. But she did not die at once, she lingered long enough to call for help, and to tell the truth about you.”

  “Come, Eileen,” said Bingham, in agony; “do not stay here longer. Let me take you home.”

  “Yes, Stan, let us go.” And the two went away, shaken by the cumulative tragedy, but happy in the knowledge of love and freedom.

  “How could you, Eileen?” Bingham would repeat over and over. “How could you do it?”

  “How could I not do it?” she corrected. “It was the only way to save you, dearest.”

  “The price was almost too great.”

  �
�Yes; almost, but not quite! It was a dreadful experience, but I went through with it!”

  “For me!” and Bingham looked deep in her glorious eyes.

  “For us!” and Eileen’s lovely face glowed with her happiness.

  Few, if any, felt regret or sympathy when Guy Farrish was put behind bars to await a trial that could have only one outcome.

  “Strange,” mused Alan Ford, talking over the case with Doctor Randall, “we agreed there could be only psychological clues, and yet I traced that criminal by the very material clue of a brown stain of gunpowder on a sheet of music.”

  “But it was psychology that made us both believe in Bingham’s innocence, or we would have been as ready to condemn him as Ferrall was.”

  “Right. A detective worth his salt must combine psychology and ratiocination in his criminalistic investigations.”

  “Yes,” replied Doctor Randall, who was not afraid of long words. “But even granting those, and also the advantage of modern scientific inventions, only a mere fraction of the murderers are convicted.”

  “That,” said Eileen, who was listening, “is because Alan Ford cannot attend to every case.”

  FAULKNER’S FOLLY

  Originally published in 1917.

  CHAPTER I

  In the Studio

  Beatrice Faulkner paused a moment, on her way down the great staircase, to gaze curiously at the footman in the lower hall.

  A perfectly designed and nobly proportioned staircase is perhaps the finest indoor background for a beautiful woman, but though Mrs. Faulkner had often taken advantage of this knowledge, there was no such thought in her mind just now. She descended the few remaining steps, her eyes still fixed on the astonishing sight of a footman’s back, when he should have been standing at attention. He might not have heard her soft footfall, but he surely had no business to be peering in at a door very slightly ajar.

  Faulkner’s Folly was the realised dream of the architect who had been its original owner. It was a perfect example of the type known in England as Georgian and in our own country as Colonial, a style inspired by the Italian disciples of Palladio, and as developed by Inigo Jones and Christopher Wren, it had seemed to James Faulkner to possess the joint qualities of comfort and dignity that made it ideal for a home. The house was enormous, the rooms perfectly proportioned, and the staircase had been the architect’s joy and delight. It showed the wooden wainscoting, which was handed down from the Jacobeans; broad, deep steps with low risers, large, square landings, newels with mitred tops and rather plain balusters. But the carved wood necessary to carry out the plans, the great problems of lighting, the necessity for columned galleries and long, arched and recessed windows, together with the stupendous outlay for appropriate grounds and gardens, overtaxed the available funds and Faulkner’s Folly, in little more than two years after its completion, was sold for less than its intrinsic value.

  James Faulkner died, some said of a broken heart, but his wife had weathered the blow, and was, at the present time, a guest in what had been her own home.

  The man who bought Faulkner’s Folly was one who could well appreciate all its exquisite beauty and careful workmanship. Eric Stannard, the artist and portrait painter, of international reputation and great wealth, and a friend of long standing, took Faulkner’s house with much joy in the acquisition and sympathy for the man who must give it up.

  A part of the purchase price was to be a portrait of Mrs. Faulkner by the master hand of the new owner; but Faulkner’s death had postponed this, and now, a widow of two years, Beatrice was staying at the Stannards’ while the picture was being painted. Partly because of sentiment toward her husband’s favourite feature of the house, and partly because of her own recognition of its artistic possibilities, Beatrice had chosen the stairs as her background, and rarely did she descend them without falling into pose for a moment at the spot she had selected for the portrait.

  But on this particular evening, Beatrice had no thought of her picture, as she noticed the strange sight of the usually expressionless and imperturbable footman, with his face pressed against the slight opening of the studio door.

  “Blake,” she said, sharply, and then stopped, regretting her speech. As the Stannards’ guest, she had no right or wish to reprove her hosts’ servants, but it was well-nigh impossible for her to forget the days of her own rule in that house.

  Even as she looked, the man turned toward her a white and startled face,—it seemed almost as if he welcomed her appearance.

  “Blake! What is it?” she said, alarmed at his manner. “What are you doing?”

  “I—heard a strange sound, Madame,—from the studio——”

  “A strange sound?” and Beatrice came along the hall toward the footman.

  “And the lights in there, just went out——”

  “The lights went out! What do you mean, Blake? It is not your business if lights in rooms are turned off or on, is it?”

  “No, Madame—but—there, Madame! Did you not hear that?”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” and Beatrice paled, as an indistinct voice seemed to cry faintly, “Help!” It was a horrible, gurgling sound, as of one in dire extremity. “What can it be? Go in, Blake, at once! Turn on the lights!”

  “Yes, Madame,” and the trembling footman pushed open the door and felt fumblingly in the dark for the electric switch.

  It was only a few seconds, but it seemed an interminable time before the lights flashed on and the great room was illuminated to its furthest corners.

  Beatrice, close behind the trembling footman, stood, stunned.

  “I knew it was something dreadful!” Blake cried, forgetting in his shock his conventional speech.

  Beatrice gave one gasping “Oh!” and covered her face with her hands. But in a moment she nerved herself to the sight, and stared, in a horrified fascination, at the awful scene before her.

  At the other end of the long room, in a great, carved armchair, sat Eric Stannard, limp and motionless. From his breast protruded an instrument of some sort, and a small scarlet stain showed on the white expanse of his shirt bosom.

  “Is he—is he——” began Beatrice, starting forward to his assistance, when her bewildered eyes took in the rest of the scene.

  Behind Stannard, and across the room from one another, were two women. They were Joyce, his wife, and Miss Vernon, a model.

  Joyce, only a few feet from her husband’s left shoulder, was glaring at Natalie Vernon, with a wild expression of fear and terror, Natalie was huddled against the opposite wall, near the outer door, cowering and trembling, her hands clutching her throat, as if to suppress an involuntary scream.

  Unable to take in this startling scene at a glance, Beatrice and Blake stared at the unbelievable tableau before them. The man got his wits together first.

  “We must do something,” he muttered, starting toward his master. “There is some accident——”

  As if by this vitalised into action, the two women behind Stannard came forward, one on either side of him, but only his wife went near to him.

  “Eric,” she said, faintly, taking his left hand, as it hung at his side. But she got no further. With one glance at his distorted face she sank to the ground almost fainting.

  “Who did this, sir?” Blake cried out, standing before Stannard. The dying man attempted to raise his right hand. Shakingly, it pointed toward the beautiful girl, his model.

  “Natalie,” he said, “not Joyce.” The last words were a mere choking gurgle, as his head fell forward and his heart ceased to beat.

  “No!” Natalie screamed. “No! Eric, don’t say——”

  But Eric Stannard would say no word again in this world.

  Beatrice Faulkner staggered to a divan and sank down among the pillows.

  “Do something, Blake,” she cried. “Get a doctor. Get Mr. Barry. Call Halpin. Oh, Joyce, what does it all mean?”

  Then Mrs. Faulkner forced herself to go to Joyce’s assistance, and gently raised her from the floor, w
here she was still crouching by her husband’s side.

  “I don’t—know—” returned Joyce Stannard, her frightened eyes staring in tearless agony. “Did you kill him, Natalie?”

  “No!” cried the girl. “You know I didn’t! You killed him yourself!”

  Halpin, the butler, came in the room, followed by Miller, who was Stannard’s own man.

  Astounded, amazed, but not hysterical, these old, trusted and capable servants took the helm.

  “Telephone for Doctor Keith,” Miller told the other, “and then find Mr. Barry.”

  Barry Stannard was Eric’s son by a former marriage; a boy of twenty, of lovable and sunny disposition, and devoted to his father and to his young stepmother. He soon appeared, for he had been found strolling about the grounds.

  He came in at Halpin’s message, and seeing the still figure in the armchair, sprang toward it, with a cry. Then, as suddenly, he turned, and without a word or glance at any one else, he ran from the room.

  Without touching it further than to assure himself that life was really extinct, Miller stood, a self-appointed sentinel over the body of his dead master. He looked curiously at the instrument of death, but said no word concerning it.

  There was more or less confusion. Several servants, both men and women, came to the doors, some daring to enter, but except in one or two instances, Miller ordered them out.

  Annette, Mrs. Stannard’s maid, he advised to look after the ladies, and Foster, a houseman, he detailed to keep an eye on Barry.

  “Where is Mr. Barry?” asked the man.

  “I don’t know,” returned Miller, calmly. “He just stepped out—probably he’s on the terrace. Don’t annoy him by intrusion, but be near if he wants you.”

  The three women of the household said almost nothing. Mrs. Faulkner was so stupefied by the situation, and the inexplicable attitude in which she had found her hostess and the girl, Natalie, she could think of nothing to say to either. And the two who had stood near the dying man, as the light disclosed the group, were equally silent.

  Annette proffered fans and sal volatile impartially to all three, but she, also, though usually too voluble, had no words.