by Anne Austin
“Why didn’t he make a clean breast of the whole mess to Flora, since he had not married her until he believed Nita Leigh was dead?” Sanderson interrupted.
“You must remember that Flora was carrying on a violent flirtation with Sprague—‘vamping’ him to get the lead in the Hamilton movie, if Sprague got the job of directing it,” Dundee reminded him. “Miles, victim of a deep-rooted sexual inferiority complex, must have felt sure that Flora, on discovering she was not legally married, would snatch at the chance to marry Sprague—which was of course what Sprague had planned in case Nita published the truth.”
“But you were wrong about the secret shelf! The gun was never there!” Strawn gloated.
“No. But it was the absence of fingerprints on the pivoting panel and shelf which kept me on the right track. Miles had searched the shelf for the marriage certificate which he could not know Nita had already burned. Probably, too, he had written her a few letters during their short courtship—”
“How was Sprague killed?” Sanderson interrupted impatiently.
Dundee led the way across the basement to a cubbyhole next to the coal room, entered and came out with a narrow, deep drawer of ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl….
“First I must tell you that Miles got the gun out of the lamp that Saturday night, parking his car at a distance and sneaking into the house while I was talking with Lydia in the basement. We can guess that he stowed gun, silencer and electro-magnet in a pocket of his car. At any rate, he came back noisily enough a little later, to offer Lydia a job as nurse in his home. Doubtless he assured himself that she knew nothing, or poor Lydia would have gone the way of her mistress and Sprague.”
“Was Sprague—?” Strawn began.
“Despite my warning,” Dundee went on, refusing to be hurried, “Sprague made a demand for blackmail money upon Miles. It is possible that Sprague, also sneaking into the house that Saturday night to get his bag, saw Miles retrieve the gun. At any rate, Sprague knew that Miles was the only person among all the company who had a real motive for killing Nita Selim, and he undoubtedly blackmailed Miles as a murderer as well as a bigamist. Perhaps Miles put him off for a day or two, but on Wednesday Judge Marshall begged for a bridge game, and Miles seized the opportunity of again having the original crowd present—a sort of wall of integrity surrounding and including him. For I don’t think he really wanted to involve his best friends as suspects. I believe he merely wanted to hide among them—apparently as above suspicion as they were. And there is safety in numbers, you know…. At any rate, Miles made an appointment Wednesday afternoon with Sprague, telling him that, if he would come to his home that evening, and manage to leave the bridge game while he was dummy, he would find the money he was demanding—in a drawer of the cabinet that stood between the two windows in the trophy room!”
Dundee exhibited the drawer he had taken from the basement tool room. “This drawer! I took it away from the Miles home this afternoon while everyone but a chambermaid was at the inquest. Miles did not have time to go home before going to your office, Mr. Sanderson, with the rest of the crowd you had summoned for questioning. If he had, he would have killed himself as soon as he found the incriminating drawer was missing from the cabinet.”
“But—how—?” Sanderson began, frowning with bewilderment.
“Very simple!” Dundee answered. “When Sprague pulled open this drawer, which was set in the cabinet at just the height of his stomach, he received a bullet in his heart…. See these four little holes? … A vise was screwed into the bottom of the drawer so that it gripped the gun with its silencer, at an upward angle. A piece of string was tied to the trigger and fastened somehow to the underside of the drawer, so that when Sprague pulled the drawer open the string was drawn taut and the trigger pulled. Practically the same mechanism by which he tried to murder me…. The kick of the gun jerked the drawer shut. All Miles had to do when he was pretending to look for Sprague was to turn off the trophy room light by a button—one of a series on the outside wall of the hall closet. Probably it had been agreed between them that Sprague would not return to the bridge game, hence Sprague’s telephoning for a taxi to wait for him at the foot of the hill, and his taking his hat and stick into the trophy room with him.”
“Then Miles had from midnight till dawn to remove the gun!”
“Yes. Some time during the night, after Flora was asleep with a sedative, which she badly needed because of the quarrel—a genuine one—which she and Tracey had had over Sprague—Miles slipped down to the trophy room and removed the gun and vise. But he could not remove the holes the screws had made, although he did cover the bottom of the usually empty drawer with old pamphlets on the care and feeding of dogs…. By the way, the chambermaid told me that her master spent about half an hour before dinner that Thursday night in the trophy room, ‘going over his fishing tackle’…. His next concern was to make the murder jibe completely with Captain Strawn’s theory of a gunman who had trailed his quarry to the Miles home and shot him through the window. The window was already open, but the screen had to be raised, too, and Sprague’s fingerprints had to be on the nickel catches by which the screen curtain is raised or lowered. Of course Sprague had not touched the screen—”
“Do you mean to say he lugged the corpse to the window and lifted it up so that he could press the stiff fingers upon the nickel catches?” Sanderson asked with a shudder. “What a fiend—”
“No,” Dundee assured him. “That was unnecessary. He simply removed the curtain screen, which is so designed that it can be taken down and put up as easily as a window shade. He carried the screen—his own hands protected by gloves, I suppose—to where Sprague’s right hand lay palm upward, on the floor, and pressed the thumb and forefinger against the catches, making fingerprints all right, but they were reversed—as I discovered when it occurred to me to examine the photographs of Sprague’s fingerprints in Carraway’s office today. Miles could not turn the stiff hand over without bruising the dead flesh; consequently the print of the forefinger was on the catch where the thumb would normally have left its mark—and vice versa…. Before I forget it, I should also tell you that I found a master key hanging on the keyboard in the butler’s pantry. Big houses, with their many locks, are usually provided with a master key, and Miles undoubtedly used that one to gain entrance into my room after midnight Saturday morning.”
“Where did you find the vise?” Strawn asked.
“In the tool chest right here, where he had also placed the reamer he had bought. The vise probably belonged to Miles originally, but he was taking no chances on anything’s being found in his possession, provided we tumbled to how the two crimes were committed…. The reamer he must have brought out here after he used it to enlarge the hole in my hot-air register after midnight Sunday morning. It is possible he did his cleaning up job here at the same time. It was safe enough to have lights on, since the house is so isolated and there had been no guard here since Thursday.”
“Well—” Sanderson drew a deep breath. “He was a far cleverer man than any of us suspected. The mechanical arrangements were absurdly easy to rig up, in all three cases, but the thinking of them—. It is a pity Nita did not fear him as she feared Sprague’s vengeance—”
“You’re right,” Dundee answered. “Nita did not fear Miles, not even when she was making him pay and pay…. No woman could look at Miles and believe him capable of murder. But a conviction of sexual inferiority leads to strange things, as psychologists can tell you…. I believe Miles married the only two women who ever fell in love with him, and there can be no doubt that Nita really loved him, for she kept her wedding dress for more than twelve years and chose it to be her shroud. It is possible she was still fond of him, although she was infatuated with Sprague when she came down here and was later sincerely in love with Ralph Hammond. Another reason she did not fear Miles when she made her will was that she counted on being able to tell him Saturday night at the latest that she would never ask him for money aga
in, if he would trade silence for silence. How she hoped to secure Sprague’s silence we can only guess at. Probably she meant to buy it with the remainder of the $10,000 she had already got from Miles—provided Sprague did not kill her for ditching him as a lover. We know she foresaw that possibility, since she willed the money to Lydia. Of course if Sprague had proved tractable, Nita as Ralph’s wife would have been able to compensate Lydia handsomely for the injury she had done her.”
“Poor Nita—and poor Flora!” Sanderson sighed, as he led the way up the basement stairs. “Hello! Someone’s calling you, Bonnie—”
Dundee ran through the kitchen and dining room and into the living room, for he had recognized Penny Crain’s sweet, husky contralto.
“What are you doing back here, young woman?” he demanded. “You were told to go home and forget all this ugly business—”
“Dad wants a private word with you,” Penny explained, her brown eyes luminous with happiness. “He’s on the front porch…. And you ought to see Mother! She looks like a twenty-year-old bride!”
When Dundee joined him on the porch, Roger Crain flushed painfully but there was happiness in his eyes, too….
“Serena asked me to thank you for giving her Penny’s message to pass on to me,” Crain began in a low voice. “I’m sure you’ve guessed a lot, but what you probably don’t know is that Serena used the securities I had sent her for safe keeping, to play the market with. When she knew what I had done here, she wouldn’t let me touch a penny of the money until she had turned it into enough to clear up all my debts in Hamilton…. Then,” and he sighed slightly, “she sent me home…. Not that I’m sorry. I’m going to try to make Margaret and Penny happy, make them and the town forget that I disgraced them—”
“Through?” Penny called from the doorway, and Bonnie Dundee forgot Tracey Miles and all his ingenious schemes.
END – Many thanks to Anne Austin for this mystery!
Cozy Mystery Three: The Mill Mystery
I. The Alarm
Life, struck sharp on death,
Makes awful lightning.
—MRS. BROWNING.
I had just come in from the street. I had a letter in my hand. It was for my fellow-lodger, a young girl who taught in the High School, and whom I had persuaded to share my room because of her pretty face and quiet ways. She was not at home, and I flung the letter down on the table, where it fell, address downwards. I thought no more of it; my mind was too full, my heart too heavy with my own trouble.
Going to the window, I leaned my cheek against the pane. Oh, the deep sadness of a solitary woman’s life! The sense of helplessness that comes upon her when every effort made, every possibility sounded, she realizes that the world has no place for her, and that she must either stoop to ask the assistance of friends or starve! I have no words for the misery I felt, for I am a proud woman, and—But no lifting of the curtain that shrouds my past. It has fallen for ever, and for you and me and the world I am simply Constance Sterling, a young woman of twenty-five, without home, relatives, or means of support, having in her pocket seventy-five cents of change, and in her breast a heart like lead, so utterly had every hope vanished in the day’s rush of disappointments.
How long I stood with my face to the window I cannot say. With eyes dully fixed upon the blank walls of the cottages opposite, I stood oblivious to all about me till the fading sunlight—or was it some stir in the room behind me?—recalled me to myself, and I turned to find my pretty room-mate staring at me with a troubled look that for a moment made me forget my own sorrows and anxieties.
“What is it?” I asked, going towards her with an irresistible impulse of sympathy.
“I don’t know,” she murmured; “a sudden pain here,” laying her hand on her heart.
I advanced still nearer, but her face, which had been quite pale, turned suddenly rosy; and, with a more natural expression, she took me by the hand, and said:
“But you look more than ill, you look unhappy. Would you mind telling me what worries you?”
The gentle tone, the earnest glance of modest yet sincere interest, went to my heart. Clutching her hand convulsively, I burst into tears.
“It is nothing,” said I; “only my last resource has failed, and I don’t know where to get a meal for to-morrow. Not that this is any thing in itself,” I hastened to add, my natural pride reasserting itself; “but the future! the future!—what am I to do with my future?”
She did not answer at first. A gleam—I can scarcely call it a glow—passed over her face, and her eyes took a far-away look that made them very sweet. Then a little flush stole into her cheek, and, pressing my hand, she said:
“Will you trust it to me for a while?”
I must have looked my astonishment, for she hastened to add:
“Your future I have little concern for. With such capabilities as yours, you must find work. Why, look at your face!” and she drew me playfully before the glass. “See the forehead, the mouth, and tell me you read failure there! But your present is what is doubtful, and that I can certainly take care of.”
“But—” I protested, with a sensation of warmth in my cheeks.
The loveliest smile stopped me before I could utter a word more.
“As you would take care of mine,” she completed, “if our positions were reversed.” Then, without waiting for a further demur on my part, she kissed me, and as if the sweet embrace had made us sisters at once, drew me to a chair and sat down at my feet. “You know,” she naively murmured, “I am almost rich; I have five hundred dollars laid up in the bank, and—”
I put my hand over her lips; I could not help it. She was such a frail little thing, so white and so ethereal, and her poor five hundred had been earned by such weary, weary work.
“But that is nothing, nothing,” I said. “You have a future to provide for, too, and you are not as strong as I am, if you have been more successful.”
She laughed, then blushed, then laughed again, and impulsively cried:
“It is, however, more than I need to buy a wedding-dress with, don’t you think?” And as I looked up surprised, she flashed out: “Oh, it’s my secret; but I am going to be married in a month, and—and then I won’t need to count my pennies any more; and, so I say, if you will stay here with me without a care until that day comes, you will make me very happy, and put me at the same time under a real obligation; for I shall want a great many things done, as you can readily conceive.”
What did I say—what could I say, with her sweet blue eyes looking so truthfully into mine, but—“Oh, you darling girl!” while my heart filled with tears, which only escaped from overflowing my eyes, because I would not lessen her innocent joy by a hint of my own secret trouble.
“And who is the happy man?” I asked, at last, rising to pull down the curtain across a too inquisitive ray of afternoon sunshine.
“Ah, the noblest, best man in town!” she breathed, with a burst of gentle pride. “Mr. B——”
She went no further, or if she did, I did not hear her, for just then a hubbub arose in the street, and lifting the window, I looked out.
“What is it?” she cried, coming hastily towards me.
“I don’t know,” I returned. “The people are all rushing in one direction, but I cannot see what attracts them.”
“Come away then!” she murmured; and I saw her hand go to her heart, in the way it did when she first entered the room a half-hour before. But just then a sudden voice exclaimed below: “The clergyman! It is the clergyman!” And giving a smothered shriek, she grasped me by the arm, crying: “What do they say? ‘The clergyman’? Do they say ‘The clergyman’?”
“Yes,” I answered, turning upon her with alarm. But she was already at the door. “Can it be?” I asked myself, as I hurriedly followed, “that it is Mr. Barrows she is going to marry?”
For in the small town of S—— Mr. Barrows was the only man who could properly be meant by “The clergyman”; for though Mr. Kingston, of the Baptis
t Church, was a worthy man in his way, and the Congregational minister had an influence with his flock that was not to be despised, Mr. Barrows, alone of all his fraternity, had so won upon the affections and confidence of the people as to merit the appellation of “The clergyman.”
“If I am right,” thought I, “God grant that no harm has come to him!” and I dashed down the stairs just in time to see the frail form of my room-mate flying out of the front door.
I overtook her at last; but where? Far out of town on that dark and dismal road, where the gaunt chimneys of the deserted mill rise from a growth of pine-trees. But I knew before I reached her what she would find; knew that her short dream of love was over, and that stretched amongst the weeds which choked the entrance to the old mill lay the dead form of the revered young minister, who, by his precept and example, had won not only the heart of this young maiden, but that of the whole community in which he lived and labored.
II. A Fearful Question
Nay, yet there’s more in this:
I pray thee, speak to me as to thy thinkings,
As thou dost ruminate; and give thy worst of thoughts
The worst of words.
—OTHELLO.
My roommate was, as I have intimated, exceedingly frail and unobtrusive in appearance; yet when we came upon this scene, the group of men about the inanimate form of her lover parted involuntarily as if a spirit had come upon them; though I do not think one of them, until that moment, had any suspicion of the relations between her and their young pastor. Being close behind her, I pressed forward too, and so it happened that I stood by her side when her gaze first fell upon her dead lover. Never shall I forget the cry she uttered, or the solemn silence that fell over all, as her hand, rigid and white as that of a ghost’s, slowly rose and pointed with awful question at the pallid brow upturned before her. It seemed as if a spell had fallen, enchaining the roughest there from answering, for the truth was terrible, and we knew it; else why those dripping locks and heavily soaked garments oozing, not with the limpid waters of the stream we could faintly hear gurgling in the distance, but with some fearful substance that dyed the forehead blue and left upon the grass a dark stain that floods of rain would scarcely wash away?
