“And it doesn’t take both my eyes”—Vance did not shift his gaze— “to see that you will never pine away if Richard is diverted.”
She pondered that a moment. “Dick’s a nice boy. It’s Papa Rexon’s idea, you know. And who am I to upset his fondest dream?”
“Is it nice to be bitter?” Vance brought out his cigarettes. Miss Naesmith accepted one, and he lighted one himself.
“Oh, it’s done in the best circles,” the girl said facetiously. “And anyway, it’s not the man’s place to walk out. That’s my prerogative.”
“I see. Mere technique of etiquette at fault. Well, well.”
The girl blew Vance a kiss and went back to the noisy drawing room.
“As I thought,” he murmured, as if to himself. “Neither wants it. Richard makes the fact evident. Ergo, pique. Evinced by a display of cruelty. Ancient feminine sequence. However, nice girl at heart. It’ll all arrange itself. Poor papa. Yes, the Rexon dynasty is crumblin’. Same like Bruce predicts.” He looked out over the shadowy rink, drawing deeply on his Régie. “Come, I’ve a wishful idea.” He spoke irrelevantly as he turned suddenly and went inside.
We found Joan Rexon in her own sitting room across the hall. She was on a divan by the window, and Marcia Bruce was reading to her.
“Why aren’t you in the drawing room, young lady?” Vance asked pleasantly.
“I’m resting tonight,” the girl replied. “Carlotta told me there’s to be a big party for Dick tomorrow night, and I want to feel well, so I won’t miss any of it.”
Vance sat down. “Would it tire you too much if I talked to you a few minutes?”
“Why, no. I’d love it.”
Vance turned to Miss Bruce. “Mind if I speak with Miss Joan alone?”
The housekeeper rose in resentful dignity and went to the door. “More mystery.” Her tone was hollow. Her green eyes flashed.
“Oh, quite,” laughed Vance. “A dark plot, in fact. But I can complete my dire machinations in ten minutes. Come back then, what? There’s an angel.”
The woman went without a word.
“I want to talk a moment about Ella.” Vance drew up his chair beside the slight reclining figure of Joan Rexon.
“Dear Ella,” the girl said sweetly.
“She is a dear, isn’t she?… I’ve wondered since I’ve been here why I never see her on the rink. Doesn’t she skate?”
Joan Rexon smiled sadly. “Oh, she used to love skating. But I guess she’s lost her interest—since I fell.”
“But I know you love to see others skating and being happy.”
She nodded. “I do. I do. I’ve never forgot what fun I used to have myself. That’s why Dad kept up the rinks and the pavilion. So I can sit on the veranda and watch the others. He often brings famous skaters up here just to perform for me.”
“He’d do anything he thought would make you happy,” said Vance.
She nodded again, emphatically. “And so would Ella… You know, Mr. Vance, I’m really a very lucky girl. And I do have wonderful times just watching others do the things I’d love to do.”
“That’s why I thought Miss Ella might be doing your skating for you, so to speak.”
The girl turned her head slowly toward the window. “Maybe I’m to blame, Mr. Vance. I’ve often thought that.”
“Tell me about it,” Vance urged softly.
“Well, you see, when I was a little girl, just after my accident, Ella went out on the rink and skated—she was a beautiful skater. I watched her and I was very selfish, I think. Just the sight of her skating seemed to hurt me. I don’t exactly understand it. I was such a baby. It—it—”
“I understand, my dear.”
“And when Ella came back to the veranda I was crying… After that, for several years, I saw Ella only at intervals. She was at school, you know. And we never spoke again about her skating.”
Vance took her hand gently. “She was probably too busy with other things to keep up her skating. Or perhaps she lost interest because you couldn’t join her. You needn’t feel guilty… But it wouldn’t hurt you any more, would it?”
“Oh, no.” She forced a smile. “I wish she would skate again. I was just terribly foolish.”
“We’re all foolish when we’re young.” Vance laughed.
The girl nodded seriously. “I’m not foolish—that way—any more. Now when I see some wonderful skater I wish it were Ella. I know she could have done it.”
“I know just how you feel.” As he rose the door opened and Marcia Bruce entered.
“The plot’s concocted,” said Vance. “And I’m sure I haven’t tired the young lady. She’s quite ready to hear the ending of the story you were reading to her.”
As we came out again into the hail and approached the stairway two figures stood conversing earnestly in a secluded nook at the rear. They were Carlotta Naesmith and Stanley Sydes. Vance merely glanced toward them and proceeded to the drawing room.
CHAPTER IX
AN ABRUPT SUMMONS
(Saturday, January 18; forenoon.)
The next morning Vance rose in good season and, after a hasty cup of coffee, left the house, alone, disappearing down the wide path which led past the pavilion to Gunthar’s cottage. Shortly after his departure the other guests straggled down to the breakfast room and then assembled before the spacious gabled garage. One by one the cars were brought out and the cavalcade swung gaily up the hill to the main road and toward Winewood. Half an hour or so later the housekeeper piloted Joan Rexon tenderly to the now deserted veranda and with motherly attentions installed her on the specially built chaise longue near the windows overlooking the skating rink.
Barely was the girl settled when Vance and Ella Gunthar turned the corner of the path by the pavilion and came toward the house.
“You see, Miss Joan,” Vance said as they entered, “not only do I see your charming companion home in the evening, but I escort her to you in the morning.”
Ella Gunthar smiled. She seemed particularly happy. There was a new sparkle in her eyes. Marcia Bruce, apparently sensing something unusual, looked from Ella to Vance and back again. Then she rose, patted Joan Rexon fondly, and went indoors.
Vance remained on the veranda a while, chatting in his most trivial manner, and finally went inside to seek the comfort of the easy chair in his room. He seemed preoccupied and lay back, smoking listlessly for some time. His meditations, whatever they were, were interrupted by a knock on the door. Lieutenant O’Leary came in and sat down. There was an added sternness in his aquiline face.
“I wanted to see you alone, Mr. Vance. The butler said you were here, so I took the liberty…”
“Delighted, Lieutenant.” Vance rearranged himself in his chair and lighted another Régie. “I trust you haven’t brought disconsolate tidin’s.”
O’Leary fumbled with his pipe a moment without replying. When he got it going he looked up.
“I wonder, sir, if, by any chance, you have the same idea I have?”
“It could be.” Vance’s eyebrows went up questioningly. “What is your thought?”
“I’m convinced I know who killed Wallen.”
Vance lay back lethargically and studied the strong set face of the man opposite.
“Amazin’!” he murmured. Then he shook his head. “No. No such thoughts here. Mind a blank as to that. Anyway, thanks for your confidence. Could you stretch it further?”
O’Leary, hesitant at first, now seemed eager to talk.
“I figure it this way, sir: I don’t think Guy Darrup was lying at the inquest yesterday.”
“No. Not lying. Merely impulsive and ingenuous. A simple honest mind ruled by zealous emotions. Indignations churned up in him, and boiled over.”
“Then you believe him?”
“Oh, yes. Quite. No alternative. Fact is, I’d done a spot of spyin’ around myself and already knew most of what he poured forth. Not a pleasant situation here and abouts. But where’s it criminal? I need more guidance. D
o you have it?”
“Here’s how I’ve put it all together: Gunthar drinks too much and is about to be discharged. Wallen’s slated for the promotion. That in itself is a good enough motive with rugged straightforward natures. Gunthar has just such a nature. He’s not subtle, and apt to be cruel in his cups: he’d take the straight line—strong and forthright— when perplexed with a problem. Now, add to this motive the friction between him and Wallen regarding his daughter’s future. Wouldn’t you say that would set the stage?”
“Granted.” Vance nodded. “Opportunity even simpler. But continue, Lieutenant.”
“Exactly, sir. A fine opportunity. Gunthar knows the lay of the land. He knows Wallen’s habits and knows his weaknesses. What could be easier for him than to inveigle Wallen to the cliff on some pretext, bash him over the head, and throw him over into the Gulch?… Miss Gunthar probably suspected her father’s intent, followed him secretly up the cliff, and, when the thing was done, came running down, crying.”
“And what could Gunthar hope to gain?” asked Vance indifferently. “He would still be discharged.”
“Oh, I know Wallen wasn’t the only available man for the job. Rexon can get a dozen others, given a little time. But I gather Gunthar intended to give up his tippling—which is only of recent origin— and insinuate himself again into Rexon’s good graces.”
“But Gunthar was still drinking too much yesterday, I saw him both before and after the inquest.”
“That substantiates my theory,” O’Leary declared. “He needed it to buck him up—the experience is enough to undo a stronger man.”
“True,” conceded Vance. “The point fits snugly. What else, Lieutenant?”
“Gunthar threatened Wallen twice.”
“Gossip?”
“Necessarily, of course. But I believe it’s authentic enough. It’ll be sworn to by reliable witnesses.”
“A clever analysis, Lieutenant,” drawled Vance. “But not a defense-proof case.”
O’Leary showed resentment. “That’s not all, sir.” He pulled himself forward in his chair. “Gunthar can’t prove a satisfactory alibi for the supposed time of the killing. He came into Murphy’s tavern at Winewood at ten o’clock that night. He was nervous and drank more than usual. He left at about half-past eleven. It takes nearly half an hour to walk here from Winewood. An hour later Sokol, the druggist in Winewood, was driving home from a late party and saw Gunthar crossing the meadow on the far side of Tor Gulch. The man thought nothing of it at the time; but after the inquest he figured the information might have some bearing, and told me about it. True enough, Gunthar was headed for his cottage. But that isn’t the short cut from Winewood.—And it is the route he would have taken if he’d first been to the cliff… Does that strengthen my ease against Gunthar?” finished O’Leary doggedly.
“Oh, markedly,” Vance readily agreed. “All rather circumstantial, however, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”
“That may be.” There was a touch of bravado in his voice: a satisfying sense of triumph over Vance. “But sufficient grounds for arresting the man.”
“Oh, tut, tut. I wouldn’t do that.” Vance was all mildness. “So far you’ve done exceeding well, Lieutenant. You put things together deuced cleverly. Why spoil it all by moving too precipitately? Tie a few more ends.”
“I don’t intend to act speedily. I could do with a few more facts.”
“Exactly. A common need of mankind. I’ll bear your theory in mind. Maybe I’ll be able to supply the missing facts. Credit all yours.”
O’Leary knocked out his pipe and rose. “I’ve several lines I’m following quietly. But I thought I’d tell you which way they’re leading. I was hoping you might see things from my point of view.”
“I do,” Vance assured him. “You’ve done well. Thanks again for your confidence.”
When O’Leary had shaken hands and gone, Vance crushed out his cigarette and walked to the window.
“Deuce take it, Van,” he said, “the man’s too specious. Speciousness. Curse of our modern age. He thinks straight, though. Competent chap. All for the best. Not a nice theory. I hope he’s wrong.”
An hour later Vance went below. The party that had driven off to Winewood earlier had returned. We saw some of them in the lower hall. From the drawing room came sounds indicating others there.
Doctor Quayne was sitting with Joan Rexon and Ella Gunthar on the veranda. He got up when he saw us and smiled.
“You come just in time, Mr. Vance,” his pleasant voice greeted us. “Now you can entertain the young ladies. I’ll have to run away in a few minutes to see some of my patients who need me much more than Joan does. I dropped by to make sure she was strong enough for the party tonight, and she doesn’t need me at all. With the rest last night and this beautiful mild weather, she’s all in readiness for the festivities.”
“Anyway,” Miss Rexon said, “I managed to keep you here an hour, doctor.”
“That was purely social, my dear Joan.” He turned back to Vance. “If all my patients were as charming as these two young ladies I’d never complete my rounds. The temptation to remain and visit would be greater than I could resist.”
“Mr. Vance, is flattery supposed to be a cure?” Joan Rexon seemed very happy.
“There can be no flattery where you are concerned,” Vance returned. “I know that Doctor Quayne means every word he says to you.”
Several of the guests came out, joined us a moment to make a fuss over Joan Rexon, and then returned indoors. The midday siren sounded. Bassett, too, I noticed, strolled out; but he merely nodded and remained at the other end of the veranda. He sat down at a small table and began a game of solitaire.
The doctor glanced at his watch. “Good Heavens! That was the noon signal!” He gave the two girls a cordial bow. “You’re both a corrupting influence.” He went quickly through the drawing-room door. A few minutes later we saw him drive away.
We remained on the veranda for another half hour, relaxing in the warm sunshine, and Vance entertained the girls with tales of his travels in Japan. In the midst of his engaging narrative he glanced toward the French doors just behind us. Excusing himself suddenly, he hastened toward the door. As he stepped inside he turned and beckoned me to follow.
Higgins was standing just by the entrance, his face like chalk, his watery old eyes bulging. Fear and horror pervaded his entire being as he clasped and unclasped his hands against his breast.
“Thank God you were here, Mr. Vance!” His voice quavered and the words were barely audible. “I couldn’t find Mr. Richard. Come quickly, sir. Something terrible—” He moved swiftly toward the rear of the main stairs and led us to Carrington Rexon’s den.
There, on the floor before the grate, lay the owner of Rexon Manor.
CHAPTER X
THE MISSING KEY
(Saturday, January 18; 12:30 P.M.)
Vance, down on one knee in a moment, cursorily examined the coagulating trickle of blood behind Carrington Rexon’s right ear. He listened a moment to the labored breathing, then sought the pulse. He turned the man’s face toward the light, found it ashen pale. He raised the upper eyelid of one eye; the eyeball was firm, the pupil contracted. He touched the cornea with his fingertip. The lids immediately compressed tightly.
“Not serious,” Vance announced. “He’s reacting now from unconsciousness… I say, Higgins, summon the doctor immediately.” He loosened Rexon’s collar and stock.
Higgins coughed.
“I phoned Doctor Quayne before I came out to you, sir. Fortunately, he was at home, sir. He should be here directly.”
“Stout fella, Higgins. Now, if you’ll call Lieutenant O’Leary—tell him to come here at once. Urgent. Explain, if necess’ry.”
“Yes, sir.” Higgins picked up the telephone, put through the call, and returned the receiver. “The Lieutenant says he’ll be here in ten minutes, sir.”
Vance stepped to the window and opened it. Then he went to the fireplace and added a fre
sh log. The crackling flames seemed to dissipate the gloom that hung over the room. A knock on the door was followed by the entry of Doctor Quayne, bag in hand.
“Good God! What’s this!” He rushed to Rexon.
“Not too serious, doctor. No. Bad rap on the head.” Vance moved away a step. “He should be coming to. Every indication of return of muscular tone. I found his pulse weak but regular. There was a definite corneal reflex when I opened his eye. Unmistakable resistance when I moved his head.”
Quayne nodded and fussed with the wound. A low moan came from Rexon. His eyes opened, glazed, unseeing. At an order from Quayne, Higgins brought brandy. The doctor forced a stiff dose gently between Rexon’s lips. The prostrate man moaned again and closed his eyes.
“Lucky I went home for lunch before continuing on my rounds…” The doctor chatted casually as he proceeded to examine Rexon. Finally he rose. “Everything quite in order,” he finished cheerfully.
Rexon’s eyes opened again, almost clear now. He recognized Vance and Quayne, attempted a smile, winced, and raised a hand to the back of his head.
“We’ll take care of that in a moment.” Quayne was kindly reassuring. Then, with Higgins’ help, he placed Rexon on the sofa. With deft fingers he dressed the wound, continuing his assurances to the man.
While the doctor was thus busied, Lieutenant O’Leary came in. Vance, in a low tone, gave him the details.
“May we put a query or two now?” Vance asked as the doctor stepped away from the sofa.
“Certainly, certainly,” Quayne told him. “Mr. Rexon’ll be quite all right now.”
Vance motioned Higgins from the room, and stepped to the sofa with O’Leary.
“Now, what can you tell us, old friend?” he asked.
“I doubt if I can tell you anything, Vance.” Rexon’s voice was low and husky, but it gained in volume as he continued. “I’d just risen from my desk to ring for Higgins… I must have been struck from behind.” His hand moved to his head again. “The next thing I knew, you and Quayne were with me.”
“Any idea how long ago that was?”
“Only a vague one, I’m afraid.” Rexon thought a moment…”But wait! I think I heard the first notes of the siren before I lost consciousness… Yes. I’m positive. I recall being annoyed because it was so near twelve and my breakfast tray hadn’t been removed. It’s usually taken out of my way by eleven. That’s why I was going to call Higgins.”
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