The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack

by Anna Katharine Green

  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 admitted me then and carefully closed the door. Feeling free to be myself, I threw off the veil I had tied under my chin an
d 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.”

  I think he was disappointed. He looked as if he regretted the spectacles he had pocketed, and when he spoke there was an edge to his tone I had not noticed in it before.

  “Do you know what that something is?” he asked.

  “No, or I should tell you myself.”

  “And what makes you think she is hiding anything from us?”

  “Her manner. Did you not notice her manner?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “It conveyed much to me,” I insisted. “If I were a detective I would have the secret out of that woman or die in the attempt.”

  He laughed; this sly, old, almost decrepit man laughed outright. Then he looked severely at his old friend on the newel-post, and drawing himself up with some show of dignity, made this remark:

  “It is my very good fortune to have made your acquaintance, Miss Butterworth. You and I ought to be able to work out this case in a way that will be satisfactory to all parties.”

  He meant it for sarcasm, but I took it quite seriously, that is to all appearance. I am as sly as he, and though not quite as old—now I am sarcastic—have some of his wits, if but little of his experience.

  “Then let us to work,” said I. “You have your theories about this murder, and I have mine; let us see how they compare.”

  If the image he had under his eye had not been made of bronze, I am sure it would have become petrified by the look he now gave it. What to me seemed but the natural proposition of an energetic woman with a special genius for his particular calling, evidently struck him as audacity of the grossest kind. But he confined his display of astonishment to the figure he was eying, and returned me nothing but this most gentlemanly retort:

  “I am sure I am obliged to you, madam, and possibly I may be willing to consider your very thoughtful proposition later, but now I am busy, very busy, and if you will await my presence in your house for a half hour—”

  “Why not let me wait here,” I interposed. “The atmosphere of the place may sharpen my faculties. I already feel that another sharp look into that parlor would lead to the forming of some valuable theory.”

  “You—” Well, he did not say what I was, or rather, what the image he was apostrophizing, was. But he must have meant to utter a compliment of no common order.

  The prim courtesy I made in acknowledgment of his good intention satisfied him that I had understood him fully; and changing his whole manner to one more in accordance with business, he observed after a moment’s reflection:

  “You came to a conclusion this afternoon, Miss Butterworth, for which I should like some explanation. In investigating the hat which had been drawn from under the murdered girl’s remains, you made the remark that it had been worn but once. I had already come to the same conclusion, but by other means, doubtless. Will you tell me what it was that gave point to your assertion?”

  “There was but one prick of a hat-pin in it,” I observed. “If you have been in the habit of looking into young women’s hats, you will appreciate the force of my remark.”

  “The deuce!” was his certainly uncalled for exclamation. “Women’s eyes for women’s matters! I am greatly indebted to you, ma’am. You have solved a very important problem for us. A hat-pin! humph!” he muttered to himself. “The devil in a man is not easily balked; even such an innocent article as that can be made to serve, when all other means are lacking.”

  It is perhaps a proof that Mr. Gryce is getting old, that he allowed these words to escape him. But having once given vent to them, he made no effort to retract them, but proceeded to take me into his confidence so far as to explain:

  “The woman who was killed in that room owed her death to the stab of a thin, long pin. We had not thought of a hat-pin, but upon your mentioning it, I am ready to accept it as the instrument of death. There was no pin to be seen in the hat when you looked at it?”

  “None. I examined it most carefully.”

  He shook his head and seemed to be meditating. As I had plenty of time I waited, expecting him to speak again. My patience seemed to impress him. Alternately raising and lowering his hands like one in the act of weighing something, he soon addressed me again, this time in a tone of banter:

  “This pin—if pin it was—was found broken in the wound. We have been searching for the end that was left in the murderer’s hand, and we have not found it. It is not on the floors of the parlors nor in this hallway. What do you think the ingenious user of such an instrument would do with it?”

  This was said, I am now sure, out of a spirit of sarcasm. He was amusing himself with me, but I did not realize it then. I was too full of my subject.

  “He would not have carried it away,” I reasoned shortly, “at least not far. He did not throw it aside on reaching the street, for I watched his movements so closely that I would have observed him had he done this. It is in the house then, and presumably in the parlor, even if you do not find it on the floor.”

  “Would you like to look for it?” he impressively asked. I had no means of knowing at that time that when he was impressive he was his least candid and trustworthy self.

  “Would I,” I repeated; and being spare in figure and much more active in my movements that one would suppose from my age and dignified deportment, I ducked under his arms and was in Mr. Van Burnam’s parlor before he had recovered from his surprise.

  That a man like him could look foolish I would not have you for a moment suppose. But he did not look very well satisfied, and I had a chance to throw more than one glance around me before he found his tongue again.

  “An unfair advantage, ma’am; an unfair advantage! I am old and I am rheumatic; you are young and sound as a nut. I acknowledge my folly in endeavoring to compete with you and must make the best of the situation. And now, madam, where is that pin?”

  It was lightly said, but for all that I saw that my opportunity had come. If I could find this instrument of murder, what might I not expect from his gratitude. Nerving myself for the task thus set me, I peered hither and thither, taking in every article in the room before I made a step forward. There had
been some attempt to rectify its disorder. The broken pieces of china had been lifted and laid carefully away on newspapers upon the shelves from which they had fallen. The cabinet stood upright in its place, and the clock which had tumbled face upward, had been placed upon the mantel shelf in the same position. The carpet was therefore free, save for the stains which told such a woful story of past tragedy and crime.

  “You have moved the tables and searched behind the sofas,” I suggested.

  “Not an inch of the floor has escaped our attention, madam.”

  My eyes fell on the register, which my skirts half covered. It was closed; I stooped and opened it. A square box of tin was visible below, at the bottom of which I perceived the round head of a broken hat-pin.

  Never in my life had I felt as I did at that minute. Rising up, I pointed at the register and let some of my triumph become apparent; but not all, for I was by no means sure at that moment, nor am I by any means sure now, that he had not made the discovery before I did and was simply testing my pretensions.

  However that may be, he came forward quickly and after some little effort drew out the broken pin and examined it curiously.

  “I should say that this is what we want,” he declared, and from that moment on showed me a suitable deference.

  “I account for its being there in this way,” I argued. “The room was dark; for whether he lighted it or not to commit his crime, he certainly did not leave it lighted long. Coming out, his foot came in contact with the iron of the register and he was struck by a sudden thought. He had not dared to leave the head of the pin lying on the floor, for he hoped that he had covered up his crime by pulling the heavy cabinet over upon his victim; nor did he wish to carry away such a memento of his cruel deed. So he dropped it down the register, where he doubtless expected it would fall into the furnace pipes out of sight. But the tin box retained it. Is not that plausible, sir?”

  “I could not have reasoned better myself, madam. We shall have you on the force, yet.”

  But at the familiarity shown by this suggestion, I bridled angrily. “I am Miss Butterworth,” was my sharp retort, “and any interest I may take in this matter is due to my sense of justice.”