The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Carolyn Wells

“We have considered him. But he and his wife went home earlier——”

  “He could have come back,——”

  “But he didn’t. Miss Vernon, we’ve gone into all these matters very thoroughly. What do you suppose the Police have been doing? There isn’t a possible theory we’ve overlooked, and it all comes back to the simple facts of the evidence that incriminate either Mrs. Stannard or yourself. I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you this frankly. If you care to say anything further in your own defence, I’d be glad to hear it. Naturally, you hate to accuse Mrs. Stannard, but it rests between you two, and it looks as if an arrest would be made soon.”

  Bobsy was drawing on his imagination a little, but he was bound to startle some information out of this provoking beauty.

  And Natalie was startled. Her face paled as she took in the significance of Roberts’ words.

  “They won’t arrest me, will they?” she whispered in a scared little voice.

  “I don’t see how they can,” and Bobsy looked at the girl, wondering. That child, that little, tender bit of femininity—surely she could never have lifted her hand against a man’s life! Even had she wished to, she seemed physically incapable of striking the blow.

  “Arrest you! Not much they won’t!” and Barry Stannard strode into the room.

  Natalie turned to him with a little sigh of relief.

  “You won’t let them, will you, Barry?” she said, as his arm slipped round her trembling shoulders.

  “I should say not! Are you frightening her, Mr. Roberts? You know you’ve no authority for all this.”

  “It’s my duty to learn all I can. If Miss Vernon is innocent, then Mrs. Stannard is guilty.”

  “As a choice between the two, it is far more likely to be Mrs. Stannard. But I do not accuse her. I only insist on the impossibility of this child’s being a criminal.”

  “’Course I couldn’t,” and Natalie smiled at the perplexed Roberts. “And if, to clear myself, I must tell all I know, then I’ll tell you that Mrs. Stannard has those emeralds in her possession now.”

  “She has! How do you know?”

  “I passed her room this morning. The door was ajar, and I was about to enter, when I saw her, at her dressing-table, looking over the case of emeralds. I recognised it at once. I’ve often seen them. I didn’t like to intrude, then, so I went on. I thought I wouldn’t say anything about it, unless it was necessary.”

  “It is necessary. Has she had them all the time?”

  “Let’s ask her,” said Barry. “I believe Joyce can explain it.”

  They sent for Mrs. Stannard, and she came, Mrs. Faulkner accompanying her.

  “I found these on my dressing-table this morning,” Joyce said, simply, holding out the case of emeralds to the view of all.

  “Found them! Where did they come from?” asked Roberts.

  “I don’t know,” and then, seeing the dark looks on the Detective’s face, Joyce exclaimed, “You tell about it, Beatrice. I—I can’t talk.”

  “This is the story,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “About an hour ago, Mrs. Stannard sent for me to come to her room. I went, and she showed me the case of gems, saying she had found it on her dressing-table when she awoke this morning. It was not there when she retired last night. Further than that, she knows nothing about it.”

  “You mean, the jewels appeared there mysteriously?”

  “Yes. She cannot account for it, herself. We have been talking it over, and it seems to me the only explanation is that one of the servants took them, and then decided to return them. Of course it would be practically impossible for a servant to sell or dispose of them after the publicity that has been given to the matter.”

  “Of course. But why a servant? Why not a guest—or a member of the household,—or—or Mrs. Stannard, herself?”

  “I!” exclaimed Joyce. “Why I’ve just found them!”

  “Didn’t you have them all the time?”

  “Of course not! How dare you imply such a thing? This morning they were in my room, last night they were not there. They were brought there during the night. It is for you to find out who brought them.”

  “Was the door of your bedroom locked?”

  “No. It is not our habit to lock our doors,—any of us. The outer doors and windows are securely fastened, and we have no reason to distrust any of the servants.”

  “Where were the gems this morning?”

  “On my dressing-table, in my dressing-room, adjoining my sleeping room.”

  “Who do you think put them there?”

  “Whoever stole them the night my husband was killed.”

  “And who do you think that was?”

  “Whoever killed him, of course.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Mrs. Faulkner, thoughtfully. “Perhaps the thief and the murderer were not the same person.”

  “That may be so,” agreed Bobsy. “Have you any theory or suspicion based on the return of the jewels, Mrs. Faulkner?”

  “No; except a general idea that the emeralds might have been stolen and returned by a servant, and the murder committed by an intruder.”

  “Why not assume that the intruder also took the jewels?”

  “Only because it would be difficult for him to get into the house and return them to Mrs. Stannard. I can see no explanation of that act save that a servant did it.”

  “Or an outsider with the connivance of one of the servants.”

  “Yes, that might be,” agreed Mrs. Faulkner. “The mere placing of the case in Mrs. Stannard’s dressing-room would not be difficult. The doors all over the house are open or unlocked at night, and a servant could easily slip in and out of the room unheard.”

  “You heard no unusual sound in the night, Mrs. Stannard?”

  “None,” said Joyce.

  “I’m sorry to disagree with the construction you put upon this incident, Mrs. Faulkner,” and Bobsy turned to her as to the principal spokesman, “but to my mind it strengthens the case against Mrs. Stannard. It seems more than likely that she had the emeralds all the time, or knew where they were. She kept them hidden, because she thought the letter written by her husband, tacitly gave the gems to Miss Vernon. Then when Miss Vernon saw her, looking at the jewels, Mrs. Stannard thought better to face the music and own up that she had them.”

  “Why I didn’t let her know that I saw her!” exclaimed Natalie.

  “Perhaps she saw you in a mirror, or heard you. Doubtless she knew in some way that you had seen her looking at the jewels, and concluded to tell the story that accounted for them.”

  Joyce Stannard looked at the speaker, and her face blanched. With a desperate cry of distress, she turned and swiftly left the room. Roberts kept a wary eye on her retreating figure, and as she went upstairs, he made no attempt to recall or to follow her.

  “She has practically condemned herself,” he said. “The reappearance of the emeralds seems to settle it.”

  “Why?” asked Beatrice Faulkner. “Why do you condemn her because of that?”

  “Look at it squarely, Mrs. Faulkner. Assume for a moment my theory is right. Then, Mrs. Stannard, being guilty, and wishing to throw suspicion on Miss Vernon, claims that the jewels were put in her room surreptitiously during the night. She is sure Miss Vernon will be suspected of having had the jewels, and, frightened, restored them secretly. This will militate against Miss Vernon, and imply her greater guilt also.”

  “Why, what an idea!” exclaimed Natalie. “As if I ever had the emeralds!”

  “That letter said you knew where they were.”

  “That letter was not written to me.”

  “To whom then?”

  “I’ve no idea. But not to me. I’m—I’m engaged to Barry.”

  “You weren’t engaged to the son while the father was alive,” probed Roberts.

  “N—no. But only because his father wouldn’t allow it. I’m going to look after Joyce,” and without a backward glance, Natalie ran from the room, and up the stairs.

  “You se
e,” began Roberts, looking at Mrs. Faulkner and Barry Stannard, “you two are the only ones I can talk to frankly. Those two ladies suspected by the police have to be handled carefully. You are both material witnesses, and as such are bound to tell me truthfully all you can of anything bearing on the case. Now, however painful it may be for you, Mr. Stannard, I must tell you that it is rapidly coming to a show-down between the two suspects, and the probability is, it seems to me, that the burden of evidence rests more strongly on the wife than on the model. The direct evidence is perhaps evenly balanced, but it seems to the police that the motive is greater and the opportunity easier for Mrs. Stannard than for Miss Vernon. The wife, let us say, had reason for jealousy, and had reason for wishing to be free of her uncongenial husband. The little model, while irritated at her employer’s attentions, was in love with another man, and could easily get away from the artist without resorting to crime.”

  “That’s right about Natalie,” exclaimed Barry, “but it’s unthinkable that Joyce should go so far as to kill——”

  “You don’t know all the provocation she may have had,” said Roberts. “A jealous wife, or an unloving wife goes through many hard hours before she reaches the point of desperation, but she sometimes gets there, and then the climax comes. At any rate, if Miss Vernon isn’t guilty, Mrs. Stannard is. You can’t find two women hovering over a dying man, and acquit them both. So it’s one or the other, and I incline toward the suspicion of the older woman.”

  “But how do you explain the various clues pointing to Natalie?” asked Beatrice Faulkner.

  “Let’s take them one by one. First, that note found on the man’s desk. Even if that were written to Miss Vernon, it needn’t condemn her. Even if she had been in love with the artist, it is no evidence whatever that she killed him. And the whole tone of the note is against its being meant for her. It is unexplained so far, but I can’t look on it as evidence against the model.”

  “I agree with that,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “That letter may well have been to some other woman interested in Eric Stannard, and she may have had the emeralds, and, through connivance with a servant, returned them to Joyce last night.”

  “No, no, Mrs. Faulkner, that isn’t right. I don’t understand the emerald business altogether, but I thoroughly believe that Mrs. Stannard has had them in her keeping all the time. Now, next, we have the evidence of the dying man’s exclamation. That, I think, is perfectly explained by Miss Vernon’s assertion that he meant he loved her and not his wife.”

  “Of course it is,” declared Barry. “I know my father was madly in love with Miss Vernon, and though he was fond of his wife, it was not the first time he had been interested in the pretty face of another woman. I want to say right here, that I revere and respect my father’s memory, but I cannot deny his faults. And he was far too careless of his wife’s feelings in these matters. My mother died many years ago, and for a long time my father led a butterfly existence, outside of his art, yes, and in it, too. Then when he married a second time he did not settle down to the generally accepted model of a married man, but continued to admire pretty women wherever he met them. Now, it is more than likely that in his dying moments his brain half dazed, and seeing the two before him, he protested his love for the model he admired and put her ahead of his wife. I do not defend my father’s speech but to me it is explained.”

  “It may be so,” said Roberts. “Now here’s another point. Mrs. Stannard declares she heard her husband talking to another woman or at least to somebody, in his studio, as she herself stood in the Billiard Room, near the connecting door. Shall we say this is an invented story of hers?”

  “Let me see,” said Barry, “what were the words?”

  “To the effect that he was not willing to leave his wife for her, and that as a consolation she could have the emeralds.”

  “Practically what was in the note,” exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner.

  “Almost,” returned Roberts. “Now was Miss Vernon there and were these words addressed to her? this question being quite apart from consideration of her as the criminal.”

  “If so, then the letter was to her,” said Beatrice.

  “And it wasn’t,” maintained Barry. “My father admired Natalie,—made love to her, we’ll say, but he never went so far as to offer her jewels, nor did she want him to marry her, as the overheard conversation implies.”

  “Could this be the way of it?” said Beatrice. “Suppose Mr. Stannard was even then writing that note——”

  “But it was found in his desk.”

  “Well, suppose he was thinking it over, and muttered to himself the actual wording of it. Mrs. Stannard says she heard no other voice, so may he not have been alone in the studio at that time?”

  Bobsy Roberts turned this over in his mind. “It is a possibility,” he conceded. “And then, let us say, after hearing those words, Mrs. Stannard entered the room, and confronted him, and perhaps there was a quarrel and in a moment of insane rage, Mrs. Stannard caught up the etching needle and——”

  “It isn’t at all like her,” said Barry, “but I can only say it is more easily to be conceived of in her case than in Natalie’s. I don’t want to admit the possibility of Joyce being the criminal, but I can believe it, before I can imagine Natalie doing such a thing. And as you say, Joyce had motive, and Natalie had none.”

  “I won’t subscribe entirely to that, Mr. Stannard. Miss Vernon inherits a goodly sum, and too, she may have been incensed at the manner of the artist toward her——”

  “No, I wasn’t,” said Natalie herself, suddenly reappearing. “On the contrary, I had persuaded Mr. Stannard, that very day, not to ask me to pose for him, except as a fully draped model. He had apologised for his previous insistence, and I looked for no more trouble on that score. I was trying to get up courage to ask him to let Barry be engaged to me, but I hadn’t accomplished that.”

  “If Mrs. Stannard had had any angry words with her husband just before he was attacked, could you have overheard them?” asked Roberts.

  “I don’t think so. Not unless they had spoken very loudly. The door to the Terrace was closed, or almost closed. And I was not thinking about what might be going on in the house. Unless there had been an especial disturbance, I should not have noticed it.”

  “Yet you heard that gasping cry for help through the closed door.”

  “Yes. But that was not a faint gasp, it was a penetrating sort of a cry. An attempted scream, I should describe it.”

  Roberts looked at her closely. Was she innocent or was she an infant Machiavelli?

  “It is a difficult situation,” he said, with a sigh. “We have but two eye-witnesses. Each naturally accuses the other and denies her own guilt. One speaks truth and one falsehood. How can we distinguish which one tells the truth?”

  “Don’t say eye-witnesses,” objected Natalie. “I didn’t see the crime committed. If I think Joyce did it, it’s only because I went in and found her there and nobody else about.”

  “Suppose,” and Bobsy Roberts looked her straight in the face, “suppose Eric Stannard held in his hand your picture,—that etching, you know, and suppose he was, in a way, talking to it. Or, say, he wasn’t talking to it, but what he did say, and what his wife overheard, was said while he held your picture, and she thought he referred to you. Then she, in a jealous fury, resented the idea of his giving you the emeralds, and——”

  “I didn’t want the emeralds,” said Natalie, coldly, “and I certainly didn’t want Eric to marry me, but even granting your premises right, it takes suspicion of the murder from me, and places it on Joyce.”

  “It does,” agreed Barry, “and that’s where it belongs, if on either of you two.”

  “It must be so,” said Beatrice Faulkner, “for if Natalie had known where the emeralds were, and if that letter was written to her, and gave her the gems,—for it really did give them to the one it was written to,—then she would have kept them and not have given them back to Joyce.”

  �
��By Jove, that’s so!” exclaimed Roberts. “Whatever woman that letter was meant for, is the real owner of the jewels this minute, according to Eric Stannard’s wish, and if she had them she would be extremely unlikely to give them up unnecessarily. But how, then, explain their return?”

  “It wasn’t a return,” said Beatrice. “Joyce had them herself all the time.”

  “I believe she had,” said Roberts.

  CHAPTER IX

  One or the Other

  Bobsy Roberts was at his wits’ end. He pondered long and deeply but he could seem to see nothing to do but ponder. There was no trail to follow, no clue to track down, and no new suspect to consider.

  He sat by the hour in the studio, as if he could, by staring about him wring the secret from the four walls that enclosed the mystery.

  “Walls have ears,” he said to himself, whimsically, “now if they only had eyes and a tongue, they might tell me what I want to know.”

  The studio furnishings included several small tables and escritoires which had drawers and pigeon-holes stuffed with old letters and papers. Like most artists Eric Stannard was of careless habits regarding his belongings. Roberts patiently and laboriously went over these papers, and found little of interest. Old bills, old notes of appointment with patrons, old social invitations and such matters made up the bulk of the findings.

  But he came across a small parcel, neatly tied with fine string and looking unmistakably like a jeweller’s box. Bobsy opened it, and found a small gold heart-shaped locket. With it was a card bearing the words “For my Goldenheart. From Eric.”

  It was quite evidently a gift for the one to whom the letter was written, but it had never been presented. It was easily seen that the parcel had been opened, the card put in, and the string retied in the same punctilious fashion that the jeweller had tied it. The paper wrapping was uncrumpled, but it was a little faded by time, and dusty in the creases.

  “Bought it for her but never gave it to her,” Bobsy surmised. “Surely I can make something out of this.”

  But nothing seemed definite. A provokingly blank paper, without address of any sort, can’t be indicative of much. The box bore the jeweller’s name, and possibly a visit to the firm might tell when the trinket was bought, which might mean some help, or, more likely, none.