Once committed to a course, however, there was nothing glacial about his movements.
The Garment case had reached a stage that called for a more notable activity. To the list of suspects had been added—incredibly—the name of Betty Waterloo, a child. An explosion, comparable to nothing that had occurred since the murder, would shake the nation were that bit of information to reach the ears of Cicotte.
There appeared to be no immediate danger of such a catastrophe, however. Dromgoole and Miss Bland had been silent enough, it had to be admitted. But who could tell? The Kimbark dwelling had been literally filled with people that night of Garment’s death. The names of only a small number of them had figured even remotely in the case. At any moment another belated memory might begin to function. The miracle was that nothing had been said before.
The guilt of Betty Waterloo did not greatly trouble Ghost, for he did not believe her to be guilty. But that she had cut a figure in the case, he now was obliged to admit. Miss Bland and Allan Dromgoole might have been lying, to be sure; but Ghost didn’t believe that, either. It was, however, possible that they were covering up a shrewder suspicion of the truth—even a certain knowledge —by revealing something which, while it was true, was not the whole truth as they knew it. But, if so, why drag in Miss Waterloo? Merely to cloud the issue?
Ghost did not particularly like the Chicago playwright and the Chicago novelist, but he was anxious to do them no injustice.
As the train sped across the farmlands, he pondered the situation many times. At length he shrugged his shoulders. Whatever else might be the case, one thing must be certain: Betty Waterloo had leaped the balcony, that night of Garment’s murder, and acquired an interest in the case. There could be only one reasonable solution, short of believing her guilty. She had seen something that had bothered or alarmed her. But she had not recognized what she had seen, since her subsequent silence could only mean that she was determined to protect her uncle. And Kimbark was not the murderer of Stephen Garment.
In any event her testimony was of the utmost importance. Had she told Anger, Ghost wondered, now that they were married? Anger himself, it was likely, still thought that Kimbark was the guilty man.
In Chicago, Cicotte was reluctantly releasing William Spessifer. A lawyer and a judge had forced the action. The judge had told Mr. Cicotte and his superiors that they must either give William Spessifer his freedom or bring a formal charge against him. William Spessifer rejoiced.
Ghost, landing in New York, revealed his presence to Dunstan Mollock and asked for tidings of the bride and groom. They were still, it developed, honeymooning at a hotel, but planning an early getaway to Europe. Ghost called them on the telephone and, taking Mollock with him, went at once to the hotel.
“Betty,” he said—“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Anger—I am afraid I am going to distress you, and perhaps annoy you. An extraordinary piece of information has come to light about the Garment murder, and only you can help us. There’s no earthly use in my beating around the bush, is there?”
Her face had gone white at his words. Anger, bewildered and apprehensive, looked from one to the other of them, then rose and stood beside his wife’s chair.
“No,” said Betty Waterloo, “there’s no use at all, Mr. Ghost. What is it?”
“I am informed that on the night of Garment’s murder—at almost the moment of the murder— you were on the lawn of your uncle’s house, having climbed over the balcony at the side. Two persons saw you—Miss Bland from the library window; Mr. Dromgoole from the little cross corridor that gives onto the balcony. Mr. Dromgoole saw you leap the balcony and run toward the front of the house. Miss Bland saw you when you returned, just as you were climbing back across the railing. Naturally we are bound to ask you for an explanation—aren’t we?”
The face of Harold Anger had become as white as his wife’s. For an instant he stood motionless, petrified with astonishment; then he roared his indignation through the room.
“They dared to tell you that!”
But immediately his voice failed him ludicrously, and he turned with a feeble gesture to his wife. “Tell them,” he breathed; “tell them—” His arms whirled meaninglessly.
She reached out and caught his hand. “It’s come,” she said. “I knew it would. You’ve got to hear this now. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. It’s so much harder this way.” She smiled a funny little smile at Walter Ghost. “Mr. Ghost doesn’t mean that I killed Stephen Garment, do you, Mr. Ghost?”
“Not for a minute,” answered Ghost quickly. “I am quite certain you had nothing whatever to do with it. But you were upon the lawn?”
She nodded her head slowly, while Anger stared in horror.
“Yes,” said Betty Waterloo, still smiling her funny little smile, “I almost saw it done, Mr. Ghost. Almost!”
Ghost nodded his own head vigorously. “Good girl!” he said. “I only wish we had known about it earlier.” His friendly eyes smiled out of his earnest, ugly face and forced her to like him. Suddenly he asked: “May I call you Betty? Thank you! You’re really still a child, you know. Now tell me, Betty, what you saw before you climbed the balcony. Somebody getting over?”
“Yes—a man—that was all I knew. It’s true, Mr. Ghost! They look alike, you know, when they’re that way—dressed in coat tails and getting over a railing. I was afraid—and so I went over, too.”
“When? At once?”
“As soon as I could get away. I don’t know how long, Mr. Ghost, but soon after. Only a minute or two, I think. I waited till I was sure no one was looking.”
“You had left the library with Mr. Dromgoole?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see Mr. Dromgoole when you looked around to see that no one was looking?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it, almost ever since—trying to get back the order of things—wondering whom I saw and didn’t see. I supposed Mr. Dromgoole had gone ahead into the living room. You see, when we left the library, I turned aside into a little writing room, across the hall. It was dark there, and I had a headache. Mr. Mollock had said something that startled me. I wanted to think.”
Mollock groaned. “That infernal story of mine!” he said.
“I thought Mr. Dromgoole had gone on ahead. Then Uncle Howland—Mr. Kimbark—and the other men came past, and I thought they had gone into the living room. After a minute I came out. I knew Mr. Garment was coming. I had heard Mr. Kimbark say so. I started to run into the living room, and as I passed that little cross passage to the balcony, Mr. Ghost, it happened. Somebody was on the balcony. He went over, I think, when he heard me coming. All I saw was black coat tails going over the railing.”
“And you were alarmed?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’d rather not tell you that.”
“Was it because of something you had heard your uncle say?”
“Yes.”
“In the library?”
“No.”
“During the day, then?”
His eyes were compelling her. Anger was writhing.
“Yes,” she said. “In the morning.”
It could only have been a threat, thought Ghost. He chanced it. “You heard your uncle threaten Mr. Garment, didn’t you, Betty?”
“Yes.”
“And you were afraid it was your uncle who had gone over the balcony to. carry out his threat. That’s understandable, and natural. But when I tell you that it was not your uncle who murdered Mr. Garment, you won’t hesitate to tell me what it was he said, will you?”
Her eyes widened a little, then narrowed. For an instant she was suspicious of this kindly questioner. “Are you telling me the truth?” she asked.
“As I understand it,” answered Ghost. “I do not, myself, believe that Mr. Kimbark had anything to do with it. I expect to prove that he did not.”
“Then I’ll tell you what he said. He was talking to Aunt Nidia, and he said, ‘Ent
ertaining Garment in my home! Think of it! When I’d rather put a knife into him!’”
Mollock whistled a low note of surprise.
“Great Scott!” said Ghost. “No wonder you were alarmed!” For a moment he hesitated, then again resumed his cross-examination. “But you saw nobody on the lawn, after all, when you had reached it?”
“No, I had been too slow, it seemed. I ran around to the front of the house, and still I saw nobody. The cab was standing in the drive, near the steps, and there was a man inside. Stephen Garment! I wondered if already—if already something had happened to him. I was afraid. Then I ran up to the cab and put my head in the window —and there was a knife sticking up out of his heart!”
“Good God, child!” said Ghost. “Why, I had no idea you had been through that. Of course! And you recognized the knife as your uncle’s. There would be light enough for that?”
“Oh, yes, there was plenty of light! There was a moon—and the front lights of the cab were burning and reflecting back off the steps. There was light enough!”
Miss Waterloo took herself in hand. Once more she smiled her odd little, twisted smile. “It was really pretty awful, Mr. Ghost,” she said.
“I’m sure it was,” answered Ghost gravely. “It took courage to do what you did after that, Betty. For it was you, of course, who removed the knife?”
“There was hardly time to think,” she replied. “There was the man on the steps, arguing with Allison. They might come down at any minute. I was sure Uncle Howland had killed Mr. Garment. I snatched out that knife and threw it across the drive into a bed of flowers. And then—”
She almost laughed with relief, to have it over again.
“Yes?”
“I ran like the devil, Mr. Ghost, back to the balcony, and got back into the house!”
Ghost applauded softly. “Well done!” he said. “And after that, of course, the excitement began. There was no sign whatever, on the lawn, of the man who had preceded you? Not a sound from him?”
“Not a sign and not a sound. It was puzzling.”
“It’s still a trifle puzzling,” admitted Ghost. “However, a great deal is now clear.”
“Yes,” said Mollock. “Dromgoole, apparently, turned back—perhaps to look for Betty—and was just in time to see her go over the railings in her turn. He leaped, later, to the wild conclusion that she had done the deed—particularly when he had compared notes with Miss Bland, who saw her climbing back. All in all, it must have been a speedy performance, from end to end.”
Ghost smiled. “If I had not timed the run between that balcony and the front door myself,” he observed, “I wouldn’t have believed that two persons could have made it and got safely back before the driver could return to his car.”
“You think the murderer got safely back, then?” questioned Mollock.
Anger said nothing, but sat stiffly on the arm of his wife’s chair, stroking her hand.
“He got back somehow,” said Walter Ghost. “Is this the first time you have told this story, Betty?”
“No,” answered Betty Waterloo, surprisingly. “I told Aunt Nidia that very night. I had to tell somebody, Mr. Ghost!”
He threw up his hands and laughed. “I suppose you did!—although it hadn’t crossed my mind. I supposed your aunt had found the knife herself next morning, suspecting what had happened— suspecting, rather, that Mr. Kimbark had murdered Garment—and hidden it in the writing room.”
“I told her where it was,” said Betty Waterloo. “But it was her idea to return it to the flower bed after the police had gone.” She looked at him with doubtful eyes. “You did find it, then! But, Mr. Ghost, ought we to leave it there?”
“To tell the truth,” replied Walter Ghost, with a little chuckle, “I thought, myself, it would be safer in New York. So just before I left, I taxied out to your place and resurrected it. It’s in my bag now, at the station.”
She looked swiftly up into her husband’s eyes. “Are you annoyed with me?” she asked him. “I know—you are thinking of what I said to you on the yacht! But I didn’t lie to you—not exactly! It was Lillian Van Peter who started that story about Aunt Nidia—and I did think, then, that Uncle Howland had killed Mr. Garment. I had to protect him, Harold. You were all so sure, too, that he was the murderer.”
She looked at Ghost. “Harold asked me what my suspicions were, and I told him I suspected Lillian Van Peter. Not of murdering Mr. Garment herself, but of getting somebody to do it. I was sure she had started the gossip about Aunt Nidia to cover up something of her own. She knew Garment, too, when they were in New York together. Well, I suppose it was a lie.”
“You have certainly been loyal enough to your uncle,” admitted Ghost, a little smile playing about his lips. “I think, perhaps, we can all afford to forget that little smoke screen about Mrs. Van Peter.”
Anger laughed a bit helplessly. “I haven’t thought of it since,” he admitted. “I thought you were quite crazy, at the time.”
“Ah,” said Ghost, “then you are forgiven, Betty, and all is well again.”
But as he was about to say farewell there was a disturbance at the door. The handle was furiously shaken, then blows as from impatient knuckles fell rapidly upon the panels. It was a miniature commotion.
Anger went quickly to the door and unlocked it. He threw it open, and Howland Kimbark strode into the room, red of face and with eyes that held a metallic glitter. At his heels, somewhat apologetically, walked Ronald Key. The aviator, although he carried his arm a little stiffly, had discarded his picturesque black sling.
Kimbark’s opening remark was bitter.
“Didn’t it occur to you, Mr. Ghost,” he asked, “that you might have come first to me, before hurrying off here to annoy my niece?”
Ghost, who had risen to his feet to greet him, stopped short in his stride, laughed silently, and sat down again in his chair. It was the place of others to reply.
Only Mollock, it appeared, was ready. “Don’t be an ass, Kimbark!” he observed, in tones as bitter as had been the Chicagoan’s own.
Miss Waterloo, at once pleased and embarrassed by the astonishing advent, hurried forward. “Why Uncle!” she cried. “How glad we are to see you in New York again! And you, too, Mr. Key; it has been ages since we have seen you. But surely, Uncle Howland, you are not angry with Mr. Ghost!”
“At least,” retorted Kimbark angrily, “I have followed him here by plane to find out what the devil he is up to.”
Ghost rose and clapped him on the shoulder. “My dear fellow,” he said, “I am afraid Miss Bland has been a trifle indiscreet. No doubt she rushed to you at once with tidings of my latest discovery. And you persuaded Mr. Key to bring you here in haste! But I am not a policeman, and your niece is not under arrest. It never crossed my mind that she was guilty.”
“She had nothing to do with it,” cried Kimbark. “I have listened to Miss Bland’s preposterous story. Great heavens, man, can’t you see what lies behind it? You were not so stupid when we talked together in my home. They’ve made it up between them—she and Dromgoole!”
“To throw suspicion on your niece?” asked Ghost dryly. “That’s too absurd, Kimbark. According to the evidence, they’ve been protecting her, as they thought, while she has been protecting you.” He added crisply: “Your niece has just admitted that she was upon the lawn, the night of Garment’s murder. She all but saw the murderer. She actually saw the body before you and Mollock and the driver reached the cab. It was she who removed the knife from Garment’s breast and hid it among the flowers. Can you imagine why she did that? Because she recognized the knife and thought you had committed the murder. She had heard you practically threaten to take Garment’s life, no longer than a dozen hours before.”
Kimbark had listened to the staccato summary with a face half startled and half sullen. He turned his eyes upon his niece.
“It’s true, Uncle Howland,” she said. “It’s all quite true. I didn’t tell a soul except Aunt Nidia, unti
l just now. But I had to tell Mr. Ghost.”
“I don’t understand it yet,” muttered Kimbark, after a moment of silence. But his face had cleared. “I’m sorry, though, if I’ve made a spectacle of myself. But just the same,” he cried, almost in triumph, “they tried to shove it off on Betty. Don’t you see? Only Miss Bland was at the window. Dromgoole saw nothing. He couldn’t! Surely we both know why?” He looked at Ghost with eagerness in his eyes. “Haven’t we kept the secret long enough? We know who murdered Stephen Garment. It’s time that everybody knew. Allan Dromgoole! I’m not afraid to name him.”
The eyes of Anger and of Key, the aviator, went swiftly to the face of Walter Ghost. But Ghost was looking back at Kimbark with an expression that was difficult to fathom. After a moment he opened his lips to speak, but Mollock’s sardonic explosion stopped him before he could begin.
“Dromgoole!” echoed the mystery writer, raising his eyebrows and pronouncing the word as if it were an oath. “My God, we’ve got around at last to Dromgoole! First Spessifer, then Kimbark, then Van Peter, then Betty, and now Dromgoole! Has anybody got an aspirin tablet?”
Chapter Seventeen
In Walter Ghost’s old-fashioned study, hemmed in by books and books and books, with here and there a picture, set like a punctuation mark between the rows, Mollock and Howland Kimbark awaited with various emotions the explanation of their host.
It was evening; the gathering at the hotel had disbanded many hours before.
To Mollock, cynical but ravenously curious, the occasion marked the conclusion of a detective story more fascinating than any he had ever invented. To Kimbark’s curiosity was added a disturbing quality of apprehension. From the beginning he had cherished the notion that Dromgoole was the murderer, and generously had concealed it. Only the sudden and bewildering revelation concerning Betty Waterloo had driven him to utter his secret thought aloud.
The End of Mr. Garment Page 18
