“They probably did not consider the fate of this unknown woman a matter of any importance to you.”
The Van Burnam girls were unlike in appearance and character, but they showed an equal embarrassment at this, casting down their eyes and behaving so strangely that I was driven to wonder, without any show of hysterics I am happy to say, what would be the upshot of this matter, and how far I would become involved in it before the truth came to light.
At dinner they displayed what I should call their best society manner. Seeing this, I assumed my society manner also. It is formed on a different pattern from theirs, but is fully as impressive, I judge.
A most formal meal was the result. My best china was in use, but I had added nothing to my usual course of viands. Indeed, I had abstracted something. An entrée, upon which my cook prides herself, was omitted. Was I going to allow these proud young misses to think I had exerted myself to please them? No; rather would I have them consider me niggardly and an enemy to good living; so the entrée was, as the French say, suppressed.
In the evening their father came in. He was looking very dejected, and half his bluster was gone. He held a telegram crushed in his hand, and he talked very rapidly. But he confided none of his secrets to me, and I was obliged to say good-night to these young ladies without knowing much more about the matter engrossing us than when I left their house in the afternoon.
But others were not as ignorant as myself. A dramatic and highly exciting scene had taken place that evening at the undertaker’s to which the unknown’s body had been removed, and as I have more than once heard it minutely described, I will endeavor to transcribe it here with all the impartiality of an outsider.
When Mr. Gryce entered the carriage in which Howard sat, he noted first, that the young man was frightened; and secondly, that he made no effort to hide it. He had heard almost nothing from the detective. He knew that there had been a hue and cry for him ever since noon, and that he was wanted to identify a young woman who had been found dead in his father’s house, but beyond these facts he had been told little, and yet he seemed to have no curiosity nor did he venture to express any surprise. He merely accepted the situation and was troubled by it, showing no inclination to talk till very near the end of his destination, when he suddenly pulled himself together and ventured this question:
“How did she—the young woman as you call her—kill herself?”
The detective, who in his long career among criminals and suspected persons, had seen many men and encountered many conditions, roused at this query with much of his old spirit. Turning from the man rather than toward him, he allowed himself a slight shrug of the shoulders as he calmly replied:
“She was found under a heavy piece of furniture; the cabinet with the vases on it, which you must remember stood at the left of the mantel-piece. It had crushed her head and breast. Quite a remarkable means of death, don’t you think? There has been but one occurrence like it in my long experience.”
“I don’t believe what you tell me,” was the young man’s astonishing reply. “You are trying to frighten me or to make game of me. No lady would make use of any such means of death as that.”
“I did not say she was a lady,” returned Mr. Gryce, scoring one in his mind against his unwary companion.
A quiver passed down the young man’s side where he came in contact with the detective.
“No,” he muttered; “but I gathered from what you said, she was no common person; or why,” he flashed out in sudden heat, “do you require me to go with you to see her? Have I the name of associating with any persons of the sex who are not ladies?”
“Pardon me,” said Mr. Gryce, in grim delight at the prospect he saw slowly unfolding before him of one of those complicated affairs in which minds like his unconsciously revel; “I meant no insinuations. We have requested you, as we have requested your father and brother, to accompany us to the undertaker’s, because the identification of the corpse is a most important point, and every formality likely to insure it must be observed.”
“And did not they—my father and brother, I mean—recognize her?”
“It would be difficult for any one to recognize her who was not well acquainted with her.”
A horrified look crossed the features of Howard Van Burnam, which, if a part of his acting, showed him to have genius for his rôle. His head sank back on the cushions of the carriage, and for a moment he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the carriage had stopped, and Mr. Gryce, who had not noticed his emotion, of course, was looking out of the window with his hand on the handle of the door.
“Are we there already?” asked the young man, with a shudder. “I wish you had not considered it necessary for me to see her. I shall detect nothing familiar in her, I know.”
Mr. Gryce bowed, repeated that it was a mere formality, and followed the young gentleman into the building and afterwards into the room where the dead body lay. A couple of doctors and one or two officials stood about, in whose faces the young man sought for something like encouragement before casting his eyes in the direction indicated by the detective. But there was little in any of these faces to calm him, and turning shortly away, he walked manfully across the room and took his stand by the detective.
“I am positive,” he began, “that it is not my wife—” At this moment the cloth that covered the body was removed, and he gave a great start of relief. “I said so,” he remarked, coldly. “This is no one I know.”
His sigh was echoed in double chorus from the doorway. Glancing that way he encountered the faces of his father and elder brother, and moved towards them with a relieved air that made quite another man of him in appearance.
“I have had my say,” he remarked. “Shall I wait outside till you have had yours?”
“We have already said all that we had to,” Franklin returned. “We declared that we did not recognize this person.”
“Of course, of course,” assented the other. “I don’t see why they should have expected us to know her. Some common suicide who thought the house empty—But how did she get in?”
“Don’t you know?” said Mr. Gryce. “Can it be that I forgot to tell you? Why, she was let in at night by a young man of medium height”—his eye ran up and down the graceful figure of the young élégant before him as he spoke—“who left her inside and then went away. A young man who had a key—”
“A key? Franklin, I—”
Was it a look from Franklin which made him stop? It is possible, for he turned on his heel as he reached this point, and tossing his head with quite a gay air, exclaimed: “But it is of no consequence! The girl is a stranger, and we have satisfied, I believe, all the requirements of the law in saying so, and may now drop the matter. Are you going to the club, Franklin?”
“Yes, but—” Here the elder brother drew nearer and whispered something into the other’s ear, who at that whisper turned again towards the place where the dead woman lay. Seeing this movement, his anxious father wiped the moisture from his forehead. Silas Van Burnam had been silent up to this moment and seemed inclined to continue so, but he watched his younger son with painful intentness.
“Nonsense!” broke from Howard’s lips as his brother ceased his communication; but he took a step nearer the body, notwithstanding, and then another and another till he was at its side again.
The hands had not been injured, as we have said, and upon these his eyes now fell.
“They are like hers! O God! they are like hers!” he muttered, growing gloomy at once. “But where are the rings? There are no rings to be seen on these fingers, and she wore five, including her wedding-ring.”
“Is it of your wife you are speaking?” inquired Mr. Gryce, who had edged up close to his side.
The young man was caught unawares.
He flushed deeply, but answered up boldly and with great
appearance of candor:
“Yes; my wife left Haddam yesterday to come to New York, and I have not seen her since. Naturally I have felt some doubts lest this unhappy victim should be she. But I do not recognize her clothing; I do not recognize her form; only the hands look familiar.”
“And the hair?”
“Is of the same color as hers, but it’s a very ordinary color. I do not dare to say from anything I see that this is my wife.”
“We will call you again after the doctor has finished his autopsy,” said Mr. Gryce. “Perhaps you will hear from Mrs. Van Burnam before then.”
But this intimation did not seem to bring comfort with it. Mr. Van Burnam walked away, white and sick, for which display of emotion there was certainly some cause, and rejoining his father tried to carry off the moment with the aplomb of a man of the world.
But that father’s eye was fixed too steadily upon him; he faltered as he sat down, and finally spoke up, with feverish energy:
“If it is she, so help me, God, her death is a mystery to me! We have quarrelled more than once lately, and I have sometimes lost my patience with her, but she had no reason to wish for death, and I am ready to swear in defiance of those hands, which are certainly like hers, and the nameless something which Franklin calls a likeness, that it is a stranger who lies there, and that her death in our house is a coincidence.”
“Well, well, we will wait,” was the detective’s soothing reply. “Sit down in the room opposite there, and give me your orders for supper, and I will see that a good meal is served you.”
The three gentlemen, seeing no way of refusing, followed the discreet official who preceded them, and the door of the doctor’s room closed upon him and the inquiries he was about to make.
CHAPTER VI
NEW FACTS
Mr. Van Burnam and his sons had gone through the formality of a supper and were conversing in the haphazard way natural to men filled with a subject they dare not discuss, when the door opened and Mr. Gryce came in.
Advancing very calmly, he addressed himself to the father:
“I am sorry,” said he, “to be obliged to inform you that this affair is much more serious than we anticipated. This young woman was dead before the shelves laden with bric-à-brac fell upon her. It is a case of murder; obviously so, or I should not presume to forestall the Coroner’s jury in their verdict.”
Murder! it is a word to shake the stoutest heart!
The older gentleman reeled as he half rose, and Franklin, his son, betrayed in his own way an almost equal amount of emotion. But Howard, shrugging his shoulders as if relieved of an immense weight, looked about with a cheerful air, and briskly cried:
“Then it is not the body of my wife you have there. No one would murder Louise. I shall go away and prove the truth of my words by hunting her up at once.”
The detective opened the door, beckoned in the doctor, who whispered two or three words into Howard’s ear.
They failed to awake the emotion he evidently expected. Howard looked surprised, but answered without any change of voice:
“Yes, Louise had such a scar; and if it is true that this woman is similarly marked, then it is a mere coincidence. Nothing will convince me that my wife has been the victim of murder.”
“Had you not better take a look at the scar just mentioned?”
“No. I am so sure of what I say that I will not even consider the possibility of my being mistaken. I have examined the clothing on this body you have shown me, and not one article of it came from my wife’s wardrobe; nor would my wife go, as you have informed me this woman did, into a dark house at night with any other man than her husband.”
“And so you absolutely refuse to acknowledge her.”
“Most certainly.”
The detective paused, glanced at the troubled faces of the other two gentlemen, faces that had not perceptibly altered during these declarations, and suggestively remarked:
“You have not asked by what means she was killed.”
“And I don’t care,” shouted Howard.
“It was by very peculiar means, also new in my experience.”
“It does not interest me,” the other retorted.
Mr. Gryce turned to his father and brother.
“Does it interest you?” he asked.
The old gentleman, ordinarily so testy and so peremptory, silently nodded his head, while Franklin cried:
“Speak up quick. You detectives hesitate so over the disagreeables. Was she throttled or stabbed with a knife?”
“I have said the means were peculiar. She was stabbed, but not—with a knife.”
I know Mr. Gryce well enough now to be sure that he did not glance towards Howard while saying this, and yet at the same time that he did not miss the quiver of a muscle on his part or the motion of an eyelash. But Howard’s assumed sang froid remained undisturbed and his countenance imperturbable.
“The wound was so small,” the detective went on, “that it is a miracle it did not escape notice. It was made by the thrust of some very slender instrument through—”
“The heart?” put in Franklin.
“Of course, of course,” assented the detective; “what other spot is vulnerable enough to cause death?”
“Is there any reason why we should not go?” demanded Howard, ignoring the extreme interest manifested by the other two, with a determination that showed great doggedness of character.
The detective ignored him.
“A quick stroke, a sure stroke, a fatal stroke. The girl never breathed after.”
“But what of those things under which she lay crushed?”
“Ah, in them lies the mystery! Her assailant must have been as subtle as he was sure.”
And still Howard showed no interest.
“I wish to telegraph to Haddam,” he declared, as no one answered the last remark. Haddam was the place where he and his wife had been spending the summer.
“We have already telegraphed there,” observed Mr. Gryce. “Your wife has not yet returned.”
“There are other places,” defiantly insisted the other. “I can find her if you give me the opportunity.”
Mr. Gryce bowed.
“I am to give orders, then, for this body to be removed to the Morgue.”
It was an unexpected suggestion, and for an instant Howard showed that he had feelings with the best. But he quickly recovered himself, and avoiding the anxious glances of his father and brother, answered with offensive lightness:
“I have nothing to do with that. You must do as you think proper.”
And Mr. Gryce felt that he had received a check, and did not know whether to admire the young man for his nerve or to execrate him for his brutality. That the woman whom he had thus carelessly dismissed to the ignominy of the public gaze was his wife, the detective did not doubt.
CHAPTER VII
MR. GRYCE DISCOVERS MISS AMELIA
To return to my own observations. I was almost as ignorant of what I wanted to know at ten o’clock on that memorable night as I was at five, but I was determined not to remain so. When the two Misses Van Burnam had retired to their room, I slipped away to the neighboring house and boldly rang the bell. I had observed Mr. Gryce enter it a few minutes before, and I was resolved to have some talk with him.
The hall-lamp was lit, and we could discern each other’s faces as he opened the door. Mine may have been a study, but I am sure his was. He had not expected to be confronted by an elderly lady at that hour of night.
“Well!” he dryly ejaculated, “I am sensible of the honor, Miss Butterworth.” But he did not ask me in.
“I expected no less,” said I. “I saw you come in, and I followed as soon after as I could. I have something to say to you.”
He admitt
ed me then and carefully closed the door. Feeling free to be myself, I threw off the veil I had tied under my chin and confronted him with what I call the true spirit.
“Mr. Gryce,” I began, “let us make an exchange of civilities. Tell me what you have done with Howard Van Burnam, and I will tell you what I have observed in the course of this afternoon’s investigation.”
This aged detective is used to women, I have no doubt, but he is not used to me. I saw it by the way he turned over and over the spectacles he held in his hand. I made an effort to help him out.
“I have noted something today which I think has escaped you. It is so slight a clue that most women would not speak of it. But being interested in the case, I will mention it, if in return you will acquaint me with what will appear in the papers tomorrow.”
He seemed to like it. He peered through his glasses and at them with the smile of a discoverer. “I am your very humble servant,” he declared; and I felt as if my father’s daughter had received her first recognition.
But he did not overwhelm me with confidences. O, no, he is very sly, this old and well-seasoned detective; and while appearing to be very communicative, really parted with but little information. He said enough, however, for me to gather that matters looked grim for Howard, and if this was so, it must have become apparent that the death they were investigating was neither an accident nor a suicide.
I hinted as much, and he, for his own ends no doubt, admitted at last that a wound had been found on the young woman which could not have been inflicted by herself; at which I felt such increased interest in this remarkable murder that I must have made some foolish display of it, for the wary old gentleman chuckled and ogled his spectacles quite lovingly before shutting them up and putting them into his pocket.
“And now what have you to tell me?” he inquired, sliding softly between me and the parlor door.
“Nothing but this. Question that queer-acting house-cleaner closely. She has something to tell which it is your business to know.”
The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives Page 60
