The Clue

by Carolyn Wells

  “But you mustn’t reason that way,” argued Rob. “Opinions don’t count at all. We must try to get at the facts. Now let us go at once and interview Miss Dupuy. Can’t we see her in that sitting-room, as we did before? And she mustn’t be allowed to faint this time.”

  “We can’t help her fainting,” declared Kitty, a little indignantly. “You’re just as selfish as all other men. Everything must bow to your will.”

  “I never pretended to any unmanly degree of unselfishness,” said Rob blandly. “But we must have this interview at once. Will you go ahead and prepare the way?”

  For answer Kitty ran upstairs and knocked at the door of what had been Madeleine’s sitting-room, where Miss Dupuy was usually to be found at this hour of the day.

  The door was opened by Marie, who replied to Kitty’s question with a frightened air.

  “Miss Dupuy? She is gone away. On the train, with luggage.”

  “Gone! Why, when did she go?”

  “But a half-hour since. She went most suddenly.”

  “She did indeed! Does Miss Morton know of this?”

  “That I do not know, but I think so.”

  Kitty turned to find Fessenden behind her, and as he had overheard the latter part of the conversation he came into the room and closed the door.

  “Marie,” he said to the maid, “tell us your idea of why Miss Dupuy went away.”

  “She was in fear,” said Marie deliberately.

  “In fear of what?”

  “In fear of the detectives, and the questions they ask, and the dreadful coroner man. Miss Dupuy is not herself any more; she is so in fear she cannot sleep at night. Always she cries out in her dream.”

  Fessenden glanced at Kitty. “What does she say, Marie?” he asked.

  “Nothing that I can understand, m’sieu; but always low cries of fear, and sometimes she murmurs, “I must go away! I cannot again answer those dreadful questions. I shall betray my secret.’ Over and over she mutters that.”

  Fessenden began to grow excited. Surely this was evidence, and Cicely’s departure seemed to emphasize it. Without another word he went in search of Miss Morton.

  “Did you know Miss Dupuy was going away?” he said abruptly to her.

  “Yes,” she replied. “The poor girl is completely worn out. For the last few days she has been looking over Madeleine’s letters and papers and accounts, and she is really overworked, besides the fearful nervous strain we are all under.”

  “Where has she gone?”

  “I don’t know. I meant to ask her to leave an address, but she said she would write to me as soon as she reached her destination, and I thought no more about it.”

  “Miss Morton, she has run away. Some evidence has come to light that makes it seem possible she may be implicated in Madeleine’s death, and her sudden departure points toward her guilt.”

  “Guilt! Miss Dupuy? Oh, impossible! She is a strange and emotional little creature, but she couldn’t kill anybody. She isn’t that sort.”

  “I’m getting a little tired of hearing that this one or that one ‘isn’t that sort.’ Do you suppose anybody in decent society would ever be designated as one who is that sort? Unless the murderer was some outside tramp or burglar, it must have been some one probably not ‘of that sort.’ But, Miss Morton, we must find Miss Dupuy, and quickly. When did she go?”

  “I don’t know; some time ago, I think. I ordered the carriage to take her to the station. Perhaps she hasn’t gone yet—from the station, I mean.”

  Rob looked at his watch. “Do you know anything about train times?” he asked.

  “No except that there are not very many trains in the afternoon. I don’t even know which way she is going.”

  Rob thought quickly. It seemed foolish to try to overtake the girl at the railway station, but it was the only chance. He dashed downstairs, and, catching up a cap as he rushed through the hall, he was out on the road in a few seconds, and running at a steady, practised gait toward the railroad. After he had gone a few blocks he saw a motor-car standing in front of a house. He jumped in and said to the astonished chauffeur, “Whiz me down to the railroad station, and I’ll make it all right with your master, and with you, too.”

  The machine was a doctor’s runabout, and the chauffeur knew that the doctor was making a long call, so he was not at all unwilling to obey this impetuous and masterful young man. Away they went, doubtless exceeding the speed limit, and in a short time brought up suddenly at the railroad station.

  Rob jumped out, flung a bill to the chauffeur, gave him a card to give to his master, and waved a good-by as the motor-car vanished.

  He strode into the station, only to be informed by the ticket-agent that a train had left for New York about a quarter of an hour since, and another would come along in about five minutes, which, though it made no regular stop at Mapleton, could be flagged if desired.

  A few further questions brought out the information that a young woman corresponding to the description of Miss Dupuy had gone on that train.

  Fessenden thought quickly. The second train, a fast one, he knew would pass the other at a siding, and if he took it, he would reach New York before Cicely did, and could meet her there when she arrived at the station.

  Had he had longer to consider, he might have acted differently, but on the impulse of the moment, he bought a ticket, said, “Flag her, please,” and soon he was on the train actually in pursuit of the escaping girl.

  As he settled himself in his seat, he rather enjoyed the fact that he was doing real detective, work now. Surely Mr. Fairbanks would be pleased at his endeavors to secure the interview with Miss Dupuy under such difficulties.

  But his plan to meet her at the Grand Central Station was frustrated by an unforeseen occurrence. His own train was delayed by a hot box, and he learned that he would not reach New York until after Miss Dupuy had arrived there.

  Return from a way station was possible, but Rob didn’t want to go back to Mapleton with his errand unaccomplished.

  He thought it over, and decided on a radical course of action.

  Instead of alighting there himself, he wrote a telegram which he had despatched from the way station to Miss Kitty French, and which ran:

  Gone to New York. Make M. tell C.’s address and wire me at the Waldorf.

  It was a chance, but he took it and, any way, it meant only spending the night in New York, and returning to Mapleton next day, if his plan failed.

  He had a strong conviction that Marie knew Cicely’s address, although she had denied it. If this were true, Kitty could possibly learn it from her, and let him know in time to hunt up Cicely in New York. And if Marie really did not know the address, there was no harm done, after all.

  The excitement of the chase stimulated Rob’s mental activity, and he gave rein to his imagination.

  If Cicely Dupuy were guilty, she would act exactly as she had done, he thought. A calmer, better-balanced woman would have stayed at Mapleton and braved it out, but Miss Dupuy’s excitable temperament would not let her sleep or rest, and made it impossible for her to face inquiry discreetly.

  Rob purposed, if he received the address he hoped for, to go to see the girl in New York, and by judicious kindliness of demeanor to learn more from her about the case than she would tell under legal pressure.

  As it turned out, whatever might be his powers of detective acumen, his intuition regarding Marie’s information was correct.

  Kitty French, quickly catching the tenor of the telegram, took Marie aside, and commanded her to give up the address. Marie volubly protested and denied her knowledge, but Kitty was firm, and the stronger will conquered.

  Luckily, Marie at last told, and Kitty went herself to send the telegram.

  Marie accompanied her, as it was then well after dusk, but Kitty did not permit the girl to enter the telegraph office
with her.

  And so, by ten o’clock that evening, Rob Fessenden received from the hotel clerk a telegram bearing an address in West Sixty-sixth Street, which not only satisfied his wish, but caused him to feel greatly pleased at his own sagacity.

  It was too late to go up there that evening, and so the amateur detective was forced to curb his impatience until the next morning. He was afraid the bird might have flown by that time, but there was no help for it. He thought of telephoning, but he didn’t know the name of the people Cicely had gone to, and too, even if he could succeeded in getting the call, such a proceeding would only startle her. So he devoted the rest of the evening to writing a letter to Kitty French, ostensibly to thank her for her assistance, but really for the pleasure of writing her. This he posted at midnight, thinking that if he should be detained longer than he anticipated, she would then understand why.

  Next morning the eager young man ate his breakfast, and read his paper, a bit impatiently, while he waited for it to be late enough to start.

  Soon after nine, he called a taxicab and went to the address Kitty had sent him.

  Only the house number had been told in the message, so when Fessenden found himself in the vestibule of an apartment house, with sixteen names above corresponding bells, he was a bit taken aback.

  “I wish I’d started earlier,” he thought, “for it’s a matter of trying them all until I strike the right one.”

  But he fancied he could deduce something from the names themselves, at least, for a start.

  Eliminating one or two Irish sounding names, also a Smith and a Miller, he concluded to try first two names which were doubtless French.

  The first gave him no success at all, but, undiscouraged, he tried the other.

  “I wish to see Miss Dupuy,” he said, to the woman who opened the door.

  “She is not here,” was the curt answer. But the intelligence in the woman’s eye at the mention of the name proved to Fessenden that at least this was the place.

  “Don’t misunderstand,” he said gently. “I want to see Miss Dupuy merely for a few moments’ friendly conversation. It will be for her advantage to see me, rather than to refuse.”

  “But she is not here,” repeated the woman. “There is no person of that name in my house.”

  “When did she go?” asked Rob quietly—so quietly that the woman was taken off her guard.

  “About half an hour ago,” she said, and then, with a horror-stricken look at her own thoughtlessness, she added hastily, “I mean my friend went. Your Miss Dupuy I do not know.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Rob decidedly, “and as she has gone, you must tell me at once where she went.”

  The woman refused, and not until after a somewhat stormy scene, and some rather severe threats on Fessenden’s part did she consent to tell that Cicely had gone to the Grand Central Station. More than this she would not say, and thinking he was wasting valuable time on her, Rob turned and, racing down the stairs, for there was no elevator, he jumped in his cab and whizzed away to the station.

  XXI

  A SUCCESSFUL PURSUIT

  BEFORE HE ENTERED THE station he looked through the doorway, and to his delight saw the girl for whom he was looking.

  He did not rush madly into the station, but paused a moment, and then walked in quietly, thinking that if his quest should be successful he must not frighten the excitable girl.

  Cicely sat on one of the benches in the waiting-room. In her dainty travelling costume of black, and her small hat with its black veil, she looked so fair and young that Rob felt sudden misgivings as to his errand. But it must be done, and, quietly advancing, he took a seat beside her.

  “Where are you going, Miss Dupuy?” he asked in a voice which was kinder and more gentle than he himself realized.

  She looked up with a start, and said in a low voice, “Why do you follow me? May I not be left alone to go where I choose?”

  “You may, Miss Dupuy, if you will tell me where you are going, and give me your word of honor that you will return if sent for.”

  “To be put through an examination! No, thank you. I’m going away where I hope I shall never see a detective or a coroner again!”

  “Are you afraid of them, Miss Dupuy?”

  The girl gave him a strange glance; but it showed anxiety rather than fear. However, her only reply was a low spoken “Yes.”

  “And why are you afraid?”

  “I am afraid I may tell things that I don’t want to tell.” The girl spoke abstractedly and seemed to be thinking aloud rather than addressing her questioner.

  It may be that Fessenden was influenced by her beauty or by the exquisite femininity of her dainty contour and apparel, but aside from all this he received a sudden impression that what this girl said did not betoken guilt. He could not have explained it to himself, but he was at the moment convinced that though she knew more than she had yet told, Cicely Dupuy was herself innocent.

  “Miss Dupuy,” he said very earnestly, “won’t you look upon me as a friend instead of a foe? I am quite sure you can tell me more than you have told about the Van Norman tragedy. Am I wrong in thinking you are keeping something back?”

  “I have nothing to tell,” said Cicely, and the stubborn expression returned to her eyes.

  It did not seem a very appropriate place in which to carry on such a personal conversation, but Fessenden thought perhaps the very publicity of the scene might tend to make Miss Dupuy preserve her equanimity better than in a private house. So he went on:

  “Yes, you have several things to tell me, and I want you to tell me now. The last time I talked to you about this matter I asked you why you gave false evidence as to the time that Mr. Carleton entered the Van Norman house that evening, and you responded by fainting away. Now you must tell me why that question affected you so seriously.”

  “It didn’t. I was nervous and overwrought, and I chanced to faint just then.”

  Fessenden saw that this explanation was untrue, but had been thought up and held ready for this occasion. He saw, too, that the girl held herself well in hand, so he dared to be more definite in his inquiries.

  “Do you know, Miss Dupuy, that you are seriously incriminating yourself when you give false evidence?”

  “I don’t care,” was the answer, not flippantly given, but with an earnestness of which the speaker herself seemed unaware.

  And Fessenden was a good enough reader of character to perceive that she spoke truthfully.

  The only construction he could put upon this was that, as he couldn’t help believing, the girl was innocent and therefore feared no incriminating evidence against her.

  But in that case what was she afraid of, and why was she running away?

  “Miss Dupuy,” he began, starting on a new tack, “please show more confidence in me. Will you answer me more straightforwardly if I assure you of my belief in your own innocence? I will not conceal from you the fact that not every one is so convinced of that as I am, and so I look to you for help to establish it.

  “Establish what? My innocence?” said Cicely, and now she looked bewildered, rather than afraid. “Does anybody think that I killed Miss Van Norman?”

  “Without going so far as to say any one thinks so, I will tell you that they think there are indications that point to such a thing.”

  “How absurd!” said Cicely, and the honesty of her tone seemed to verify Fessenden’s conviction that whatever guilty knowledge this girl might possess, she herself was innocent of crime.

  “If it is an absurd idea, then why not return to Mapleton and answer any queries that may be put to you? You are innocent, therefore you have nothing to fear.”

  “I have a great deal to fear.”

  The girl spoke gently, even sadly, now. She seemed full of anxiety and sorrow, that yet showed no trace of apprehension for herself.

&nb
sp; All at once a light broke upon Fessenden. She was shielding somebody. Nor was it hard to guess who it might be!

  “Miss Dupuy,” began Rob again, eagerly this time, “I have succeeded in establishing, practically, Mr. Carleton’s innocence. May I not likewise establish your own?”

  “Mr. Carleton’s innocence!” repeated the girl, clasping her hands. “Oh, is that true? Then who did do it?”

  “We don’t know yet,” went on Rob, hastening to make the most of the advantage he had gained; “but having assured you that it was not Schuyler Carleton, will you not tell me what it is you have been keeping secret?”

  “How do you know Mr. Carleton is innocent? Have you proved it? Has some one else confessed?”

  “No, no one has confessed. And, indeed, I may as well own up that no one is quite so sure of Mr. Carleton’s innocence as I am myself. But I am sure of it, and I’m going to prove it. Now, will you not help me to do so?”

  “How can I help yon?”

  “By explaining that discrepancy in time, so far as you can. You testified that Mr. Carleton entered the house at half-past eleven, and Mr. Hunt said he came in at quarter-past. What made you tell that falsehood, and stick to it?”

  “Why, nothing,” exclaimed Cicely, “except that I thought I saw Mr. Carleton come into the house some little time before he cried out for help. I was looking over the baluster when Mr. Hunt said he saw me, and I, too, thought it was Mr. Carleton who came in then.”

  “It was Mr. Carleton, but he has satisfactorily explained why he came in, and what he was doing until the time when he called out for help. Why did you not tell us about this at first?”

  “I was afraid—afraid they might connect Mr. Carleton with the murder, and I was afraid.”

  “You were afraid that he really had done the deed?”

  “Yes,” said Cicely in a very low voice, but with an intonation that left no doubt of her truthfulness.

  “Then,” said Rob in his kindest way, “you may set your mind at rest. Mr. Carleton is no longer under actual suspicion, and you may go away, as you intended, for a few days’ rest. I should be glad to have your address, though I trust it will not be necessary for me to send for you; and I know you will not be called to witness against Schuyler Carleton.”