“And what happens to Oakhurst?” asked Mme. Storey.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? Darius has put it into the hands of Merryman. It’s to be sold, lock, stock, and barrel.”
“And quite right, too….By the way, do you know what Darius’s movements will be tomorrow? I must see him if I can, in order to remove this ridiculous wrong impression he has got of me.”
“You’re so kind, Rosika! All I know is, he’s going to sleep at his rooms in the Vandermeer tonight, in order to be on hand early for all the things he has to see to tomorrow.”
“Well, I’ll call him up at the Vandermeer.”
Arm in arm, they had been moving slowly out through my office with me at their heels. They had now reached the door. Mme. Storey kissed the girl fondly. My mistress was playing an elaborate game, but at least there was nothing insincere about that gesture.
“One last thing,” she said. “I want to make you a little gift of some sort…”
Fay made a gesture of dissent.
“When the news comes out you will be showered with all sorts of useless things. I should like to give you something that you want. What shall it be?”
“Oh, I’d much rather leave it to you, dear.”
“Well, I must think of something original.” She feigned to be considering deeply. “I have it!” she said. “I will give you a beautifully mounted gun with your name chased on the handle. Every woman ought to have a gun.”
“Oh, thank you!” said Fay. “But I have one! Darius says too that every woman ought to have a gun. He gave me one months ago.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Mme. Storey. “What sort of gun?”
“A Matson 32, automatic.”
I shivered inwardly. Did the man buy them wholesale?
“Do you carry it about with you?” asked Mme. Storey, laughing.
“Oh, no,” said Fay simply. “I keep it in my bottom drawer.”
“Ah, well, I’ll have to think of something else then,” said Mme. Storey.
They embraced, and Fay went.
The instant the door closed after her, Mme. Storey said to me: “Quick, Bella! Your hat!” She went to the window to wave her hand to Fay when she issued below. While standing there, she continued to speak rapidly to me. “Pick up a taxi, and go to Merryman’s. That’s the big real estate office on Madison Avenue near Forty-Fourth Street. If it’s closed, you’ll have to look up the address of one of the partners in the telephone book, and go to his house. Apologise for disturbing him and say that your employer (who wishes to remain unknown for the moment) has just learned that the Whittall property in Riverdale has come into the market. Ask for an order to view the place tomorrow. Explain that, owing to your employer’s leaving for the West, tomorrow is the only day he will have for the purpose….Wait a minute! Fay is just getting into her car….Now she’s off. Run along!”
VI
Next morning we drove up to Riverdale in Mme. Storey’s own limousine, but instead of her regular chauffeur, we had Crider at the wheel, an admirable fellow, quiet and keen; the chief of all our operatives. I pointed out to Mme. Storey that if anybody at the house was curious about us, it would be an easy matter to find out who we were by tracing the number of our licence.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “By tonight it will all be decided one way or the other.”
Riverdale, as everybody knows, is not a “dale” at all, but a bold hill on the mainland, just to the North of Manhattan Island. On the one side it overlooks the Hudson River; on the other the flat expanse of the Bronx with Van Cortlandt Park. The original village may have started down by the river, but now the whole rocky height is thickly covered with handsome new villas standing in their limited plots. It is an exceedingly well-to-do community, but not fashionable. Fashion has fled farther from town. “Oakhurst,” however, is a survival. It was built and laid out by the first Darius Whittall in the days when “a mansion on the Hudson” was synonymous with everything that was opulent and eminent.
The grounds were of considerable extent. We drove in through beautiful wrought-iron gates and past a lodge in the English style. The house was invisible from the road. We wound through a wood of evergreens and oaks before coming to it in the midst of its lawns. It was a long, irregular structure built of native stone. It had no particular architectural pretensions, but the years had mellowed it. It looked dignified and comfortable. This was the back of the house really; the principal rooms faced the glorious prospect over the Hudson with the Palisades beyond.
We drove up under a porte cochère, and upon alighting, were received by an irreproachable butler. This must have been Frost. I showed him our order to view the place, and Mme. Storey expressed a wish to be shown the grounds first. Whereupon he handed us over to the second man, a sort of embryo butler; younger, fresh-faced; not yet able to subdue his curiosity and interest at the sight of a woman so beautiful as Madame Storey. He conducted us around the side of the house to the head gardener, who was directing the operations of several men engaged in setting out shrubs.
So we began our perambulations. There was only one thing about the grounds that really interested us; i.e., the pavilion; but of course we said nothing about it, waiting until we should arrive there in proper order. In front of the house the ground fell away gradually in beautiful flower-beds and terraces, to the edge of a steep declivity which dropped to the river. The steep part was wooded in order to mask the railway tracks below. At this season it was all rather sere and leafless, except the grass, which was clipped and rolled to the semblance of green velvet. Stables, garage, and other offices were all concealed behind shrubbery to the north of the house.
We could see the pavilion off to the left as we faced the river; that is to say the southerly side. On this side the hill ran out in a little point ending in a knoll, and on the knoll was the pavilion, in the form of a little Greek temple with a flattened dome and a circle of Doric columns. The winding path which led to it was bordered with rhododendrons, backed with arbour vitæ. As we approached, I pictured the beautiful woman running down that path thinking she was going to the man she loved, and I seemed to hear the shot that ended everything for her. At the foot of the three steps one instinctively looked for bloodstains in the grey gravel; but, of course, all such marks had been erased long since.
Mme. Storey said to the gardener: “I should like to sit down here for five minutes to look at the view. Will you come back?”
The man bowed and hurried away to look after his subordinates.
As we mounted the three steps Mme. Storey laid her hand against the first pillar to the right. “Here,” she murmured, “the murderer waited concealed, gun in hand.”
I shivered.
Inside, there was a circle of flat-topped marble benches. The view from that spot is world famous. One could see both up and down the glorious river for miles. Only within the last few years the foreground had been defaced by the cutting of new streets and the building of showy houses.
“Our first job is to decide how the murderer got here,” said Mme. Storey. “He must have familiarised himself with the spot beforehand.”
“But, of course, he knew the spot!” I said, in surprise.
“Mustn’t jump to conclusions, my Bella!” she said with a smile. “To go upon the assumption that we already know everything would only be to warp the judgment. All that we can say so far is, some person unknown to us stood behind that pillar and shot Mrs. Whittall.”
I thought she was over-scrupulous.
As soon as we looked down to the left, the means of access was clear. The present boundary of the Whittall property was only about a hundred feet away on this side. It was marked by a rough stone wall, not very high; any determined person could have scrambled over it. On the other side of the wall a new street had been laid off down to the river. There were several new houses l
ooking over the wall, and a boating club house down at the end. Once over the wall it was an easy climb through the dead leaves and thin undergrowth up to the pavilion.
“If one followed that street back over the hill and down into the valley on the other side,” said Mme. Storey, “it would bring one out somewhere in the vicinity of the subway terminal at Van Cortlandt Park. That is the way he came. You cannot trace anybody on the subway.”
She went on: “Now, what did Whittall do with his wife’s revolver?”
“A search?” I asked anxiously, thinking what a little time we had.
“Oh, sit down,” she said, suiting the action to the word. “And appear to be enjoying the view like me.” She produced a cigarette, and lighted it. “Let us search in our heads first. Let us put it through a process of elimination. We have something to go on in this instance because we know our man.”
She presently went on: “During that minute when he was left alone with the body, he took the revolver out of the drawer and dropped it in his pocket. All during the time when the police were in the house it lay there in his pocket, burning him! As soon as he could, he left the house with his little flashlight as Mary has told us, and came this way. He was looking for the letter then. He was afraid that his wife might have carried it out in her hand, and dropped it when she fell. Not finding any letter he had to dispose of the gun. Well, there he was. He dared not stay out more than a few minutes. Put yourself in his place, Bella. What would he do with it?”
I shook my head helplessly.
“I think his first impulse would be to toss it from him as far as he could,” Mme. Storey resumed. “But it was night, you see, and the risk would be too great that the morning light would reveal it. There are too many men working on this place! For the same reason he wouldn’t dare hide it in the shrubbery. He would next think of burying it, but I don’t suppose Whittall had ever dug a hole in his life. Besides, he would have to get a tool, which would take time, and anyway, where in this carefully manicured place could he have buried it without leaving tell-tale marks? Then there’s the river, that’s the ideal hiding-place. But it’s too far away. It would take him twenty minutes to go and come, not counting the time he spent looking for the letter, and we have Mary’s word for it that he was not out of the house more than ten….I think he would have risked the trip to the river, Bella, had he not known of water nearer to. For a guilty person with a heavy object to hide instinctively thinks of water!”
We saw the gardener returning along the path.
Mme. Storey smiled on him. “I have a horror of mosquitoes,” she said to him as he came up, “and I want to ask you if there is any standing water on the place, or nearby. Any pond or pool or basin.”
“No, Madame,” was the reply. “Nothing of that sort anywhere in the neighbourhood.”
“But are you sure?” she persisted sweetly. “They say that even a pan of water is enough if it’s allowed to stand.”
“Well, there’s an old well down at the foot of the front lawn,” he said good-humouredly. “But I hardly think the insects could breed there, because it’s twenty feet down to the water.”
“Still I’d like to look at it,” said Mme. Storey. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Certainly, Madame.”
He pointed out a path which led down to the right. As he led the way, he gave us the history of the old well. “The original house on this property stood on the edge of the steep bank, and this was the well belonging to it. When Mr. Whittall’s grandfather pulled the old house down, he did not fill up the well, but built an ornamental well-house over it. But the late Mrs. Whittall thought it was incongruous, as it was, and she had it removed. Her idea was to bring over an antique well-curb from Italy, but for some reason this was never done, and so at present it just has a temporary cover over it.”
In a hundred yards or so we came to the spot. It was on the lowest level of the gardens and terraces in front of the house. One could picture the old-fashioned farmhouse which had once stood there. The magnificent elm which had shaded it had been allowed to remain. The brickwork of the well projected a few inches above the ground, and over it had been laid a heavy wooden cover with a trap in the middle, having a ring.
“Will that open?” asked Mme. Storey, pointing.
He got down on his knees to pull it up, looking bored at these vagaries of my mistress, but still respectful.
“I want to look in it,” she said.
He made place for her, and she in turn got down on her knees to peer into the black hole.
Suddenly she clasped her breast. “Oh, my pin!” she cried. “It fell in!” And got up with a face of tragedy.
The old gardener scratched his head. I think he was a Scotsman. He looked utterly disgusted. Oh, the folly of these gentlefolk! his expression said.
“It must be recovered!” my mistress said agitatedly. What an admirable actress she was! “It must be recovered! I value it above price!”
“Well, ma’am, I suppose it can be got,” the man said slowly. “There’s not above three feet of water in the bottom. I have a block and tackle in the toolhouse. I will send one of the men down.”
“My chauffeur shall go down,” said Mme. Storey.
“No need of that, ma’am.”
“No, I insist! My chauffeur shall go down. If the others will help him I shall see that all are well rewarded for their trouble. And you, too!”
“As you wish, Madame.” He went off to summon help.
With a slight smile, Mme. Storey pressed an emerald bar-pin that she had unfastened from somewhere or other into my hand, and sent me for Crider. I found him still sitting like a wooden image at the wheel of the car. I gave him the emerald, which he pinned inside his clothes, and whispered his instructions. His eyes gleamed. We returned to the old well.
The under-gardeners had gathered to help, and the old man was dragging block and tackle towards the spot.
“This will take some time, I suppose,” said Mme. Storey when he came up. “We had better be looking over the house while we wait.”
So we went back up the slope.
We had no particular interest in the interior of the house, but we went over everything dutifully under the guidance of the butler. It was one of the most attractive houses I ever was in. If I had never heard anything else about the mistress of it I would have known by the inside of her house that she was a superior woman. It had nothing of the awful perfection usual to the houses of the very rich; nothing of the museum look. It was full of character. There were no “period” rooms.
In order to give Crider plenty of time we made our tour last as long as possible, but we had returned to the main floor before any word came from him. There was a central hall which was furnished with comfortable chairs. Mme. Storey said to the butler:
“If we may, we will wait here a little while. It is so cold outside.”
“Certainly, Madame,” he said, and withdrew. We had a feeling, though, that he was lingering somewhere close by. Well, after all, we were strangers in the house.
In a few minutes we heard a car approach swiftly through the crunching gravel, and come to a stop with a grinding of brakes. Mme. Storey and I looked at each other significantly. She shrugged. We heard the car door slam outside, feet came running up the steps, and the front door was flung open. There stood the master of the house. The light was behind him, and I could not read his expression.
The thought instantly flew into my head that the butler, recognising Mme. Storey, or perhaps suspecting us on general principles, had telephoned to him. He had had just about time enough to drive up from town.
VII
“What! Mme. Storey!” Whittall cried very affably. “What a surprise! I had no idea that you were interested in my property. Why didn’t you let me know?”
She ignored the question. “It is
beautiful!” she said blandly, “but I am afraid it is too expensive for me.”
They shook hands. I could see his face now. He had it under pretty good control, but his eyes were narrow and sharp with curiosity. He was a handsome man in his way, with dark, bright eyes in which there was something both defiant and shifty. It was the look of a schoolboy who knows he has a bad name, and is determined to brazen it out. Why had not Fay Brunton’s instincts taken alarm? I wondered. But perhaps Whittall only had that look when he faced my mistress.
“Oh, it’s too expensive for anybody to own as a residence now,” he said with a laugh. “I supposed it would be bought by a real estate operator, and subdivided….Have you seen everything?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Mme. Storey. “We were just waiting for a few minutes. I had the misfortune to lose a piece of jewellery in the grounds, and they are looking for it.”
“Ah, I am so sorry!” While he smiled in polite sympathy, his sharp eyes sought to bore into her, but my mistress’s face presented a surface as smooth as tinted china.
“We might as well go and see what they are about,” she said, moving towards the door.
“Don’t hurry away!” he begged. “I don’t often have the chance of entertaining you.”
However, at this moment the butler appeared, to announce that Madame’s pin had been found, and we all moved out to the front steps. Crider was there, and the head gardener. Crider passed over the emerald, and with a meaning look gave his mistress to understand that he had been successful in his other quest. A great relief filled me. Whittall had not come home in time to frustrate us. Mme. Storey was loud in her protestations of thankfulness. She opened her purse to reward the gardener and his men.
“Where was it found?” asked Whittall.
The gardener spoke up. “At the bottom of the old well, sir.”
It must have given Whittall a hideous shock. I scarcely had the heart to look at him. He uttered no sound; his eyes were divested of all sense. His florid face went greyish, leaving a network of tiny, purplish veins outlined against the greyness. Several times he essayed to speak before any sound came out.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 97
