The Dead Witness: A Connoisseur's Collection of Victorian Detective Stories

by Michael Sims

  “That these smears (they could not be called footprints) not only crossed the hall but appeared in more than one place on the staircase proves that he did not confine his search to the lower storey; and perhaps one of the most interesting features of the case lies in the indications given by these marks of the raging course he took through these upper rooms. As the accompanying diagram will show he went first into the large front chamber, thence to the rear where we find two rooms, one unfinished and filled with accumulated stuff most of which he left lying loose upon the floor, and the other plastered, and containing a window opening upon an alleyway at the side, but empty of all furniture and without even a carpet on the bare boards.

  “Why he should have entered the latter place, and why, having entered he should have crossed to the window, will be plain to those who have studied the conditions. The front chamber windows were tightly shuttered, the attic ones cumbered with boxes and shielded from approach by old bureaus and discarded chairs. This one only was free and, although darkened by the proximity of the house neighbouring it across the alley, was the only spot on the storey where sufficient light could be had at this late hour for the examination of any object of whose value he was doubtful. That he had come across such an object and had brought it to this window for some such purpose is very satisfactorily demonstrated by the discovery of a worn out wallet of ancient make lying on the floor directly in front of this window—a proof of his cupidity but also proof of his ill-luck. For this wallet, when lifted and opened, was found to contain two hundred or more dollars in old bills, which, if not the full hoard of their industrious owner, was certainly worth the taking by one who had risked his neck for the sole purpose of theft.

  “This wallet, and the flight of the murderer without it, give to this affair, otherwise simply brutal, a dramatic interest which will be appreciated not only by the very able detectives already hot upon the chase, but by all other inquiring minds anxious to solve a mystery of which so estimable a woman has been the unfortunate victim. A problem is presented to the police—”

  There Violet stopped.

  When, not long after, the superb limousine of Peter Strange stopped before the little house in Seventeenth Street, it caused a veritable sensation, not only in the curiosity-mongers lingering on the sidewalk, but to the two persons within—the officer on guard and a belated reporter.

  Though dressed in her plainest suit, Violet Strange looked much too fashionable and far too young and thoughtless to be observed, without emotion, entering a scene of hideous and brutal crime. Even the young man who accompanied her promised to bring a most incongruous element into this atmosphere of guilt and horror, and, as the detective on guard whispered to the man beside him, might much better have been left behind in the car.

  But Violet was great for the proprieties and young Arthur followed her in.

  Her entrance was a coup du theatre. She had lifted her veil in crossing the sidewalk and her interesting features and general air of timidity were very fetching. As the man holding open the door noted the impression made upon his companion, he muttered with sly facetiousness:

  “You think you’ll show her nothing; but I’m ready to bet a fiver that she’ll want to see it all and that you’ll show it to her.”

  The detective’s grin was expressive, notwithstanding the shrug with which he tried to carry it off.

  And Violet? The hall into which she now stepped from the most vivid sunlight had never been considered even in its palmiest days as possessing cheer even of the stately kind. The ghastly green light infused through it by the coloured glass on either side of the doorway seemed to promise yet more dismal things beyond.

  “Must I go in there?” she asked, pointing, with an admirable simulation of nervous excitement, to a half-shut door at her left. “Is there where it happened? Arthur, do you suppose that there is where it happened?”

  “No, no, Miss,” the officer made haste to assure her. “If you are Miss Strange” (Violet bowed), “I need hardly say that the woman was struck in her bedroom. The door beside you leads into the parlour, or as she would have called it, her work-room. You needn’t be afraid of going in there. You will see nothing but the disorder of her boxes. They were pretty well pulled about. Not all of them though,” he added, watching her as closely as the dim light permitted.

  “There is one which gives no sign of having been tampered with. It was done up in wrapping paper and is addressed to you, which in itself would not have seemed worthy of our attention had not these lines been scribbled on it in a man’s handwriting: ‘Send without opening.’ ”

  “How odd!” exclaimed the little minx with widely opened eyes and an air of guileless innocence. “What ever can it mean? Nothing serious I am sure, for the woman did not even know me. She was employed to do this work by Madame Pirot.”

  “Didn’t you know that it was to be done here?”

  “No. I thought Madame Pirot’s own girls did her embroidery for her.”

  “So that you were surprised—”

  “Wasn’t I!”

  “To get our message.”

  “I didn’t know what to make of it.”

  The earnest, half-injured look with which she uttered this disclaimer, did its appointed work. The detective accepted her for what she seemed and, oblivious to the reporter’s satirical gesture, crossed to the work-room door, which he threw wide open with the remark:

  “I should be glad to have you open that box in our presence. It is undoubtedly all right, but we wish to be sure. You know what the box should contain?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed; pillow-cases and sheets, with a big S embroidered on them.”

  “Very well. Shall I undo the string for you?”

  “I shall be much obliged,” said she, her eye flashing quickly about the room before settling down upon the knot he was deftly loosening.

  Her brother, gazing indifferently in from the doorway, hardly noticed this look; but the reporter at his back did, though he failed to detect its penetrating quality.

  “Your name is on the other side,” observed the detective as he drew away the string and turned the package over.

  The smile which just lifted the corner of her lips was not in answer to this remark, but to her recognition of her employer’s handwriting in the words under her name: Send without opening. She had not misjudged him.

  “The cover you may like to take off yourself,” suggested the officer, as he lifted the box out of its wrapper.

  “Oh, I don’t mind. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in embroidered linen. Or perhaps that is not what you are looking for?”

  No one answered. All were busy watching her whip off the lid and lift out the pile of sheets and pillow-cases with which the box was closely packed.

  “Shall I unfold them?” she asked.

  The detective nodded.

  Taking out the topmost sheet, she shook it open. Then the next and the next till she reached the bottom of the box. Nothing of a criminating nature came to light. The box as well as its contents was without mystery of any kind. This was not an unexpected result of course, but the smile with which she began to refold the pieces and throw them back into the box, revealed one of her dimples which was almost as dangerous to the casual observer as when it revealed both.

  “There,” she exclaimed, “you see! Household linen exactly as I said. Now may I go home?”

  “Certainly, Miss Strange.”

  The detective stole a sly glance at the reporter. She was not going in for the horrors then after all.

  But the reporter abated nothing of his knowing air, for while she spoke of going, she made no move towards doing so, but continued to look about the room till her glances finally settled on a long dark curtain shutting off an adjoining room.

  “There’s where she lies, I suppose,” she feelingly exclaimed. “And not one of you knows who killed her. Somehow, I cannot understand that. Why don’t you know when that’s what you’re hired for?” The innocence with which she uttered th
is was astonishing. The detective began to look sheepish and the reporter turned aside to hide his smile. Whether in another moment either would have spoken no one can say, for, with a mock consciousness of having said something foolish, she caught up her parasol from the table and made a start for the door.

  But of course she looked back.

  “I was wondering,” she recommenced, with a half wistful, half speculative air, “whether I should ask to have a peep at the place where it all happened.”

  The reporter chuckled behind the pencil-end he was chewing, but the officer maintained his solemn air, for which act of self-restraint he was undoubtedly grateful when in another minute she gave a quick impulsive shudder not altogether assumed, and vehemently added: “But I couldn’t stand the sight; no, I couldn’t! I’m an awful coward when it comes to things like that. Nothing in all the world would induce me to look at the woman or her room. But I should like”—here both her dimples came into play though she could not be said exactly to smile—“just one little look upstairs, where he went poking about so long without any fear it seems of being interrupted. Ever since I’ve read about it I have seen, in my mind, a picture of his wicked figure sneaking from room to room, tearing open drawers and flinging out the contents of closets just to find a little money—a little, little money! I shall not sleep to-night just for wondering how those high up attic rooms really look.”

  Who could dream that back of this display of mingled childishness and audacity there lay hidden purpose, intellect, and a keen knowledge of human nature. Not the two men who listened to this seemingly irresponsible chatter. To them she was a child to be humoured and humour her they did. The dainty feet which had already found their way to that gloomy staircase were allowed to ascend, followed it is true by those of the officer who did not dare to smile back at the reporter because of the brother’s watchful and none too conciliatory eye.

  At the stair head she paused to look back.

  “I don’t see those horrible marks which the papers describe as running all along the lower hall and up these stairs.”

  “No, Miss Strange; they have gradually been rubbed out, but you will find some still showing on these upper floors.”

  “Oh! oh! where? You frighten me—frighten me horribly! But—but—if you don’t mind, I should like to see.”

  Why should not a man on a tedious job amuse himself? Piloting her over to the small room in the rear, he pointed down at the boards. She gave one look and then stepped gingerly in.

  “Just look!” she cried; “a whole string of marks going straight from door to window. They have no shape, have they,—just blotches? I wonder why one of them is so much larger than the rest?”

  This was no new question. It was one which everybody who went into the room was sure to ask, there was such a difference in the size and appearance of the mark nearest the window. The reason—well, minds were divided about that, and no one had a satisfactory theory. The detective therefore kept discreetly silent.

  This did not seem to offend Miss Strange. On the contrary it gave her an opportunity to babble away to her heart’s content.

  “One, two, three, four, five, six,” she counted, with a shudder at every count. “And one of them bigger than the others.” She might have added, “It is the trail of one foot, and strangely, intermingled at that,” but she did not, though we may be quite sure that she noted the fact. “And where, just where did the old wallet fall? Here? or here?”

  She had moved as she spoke, so that in uttering the last “here,” she stood directly before the window. The surprise she received there nearly made her forget the part she was playing. From the character of the light in the room, she had expected, on looking out, to confront a near-by wall, but not a window in that wall. Yet that was what she saw directly facing her from across the old-fashioned alley separating this house from its neighbour; twelve unshuttered and uncurtained panes through which she caught a darkened view of a room almost as forlorn and devoid of furniture as the one in which she then stood.

  When quite sure of herself, she let a certain portion of her surprise appear.

  “Why, look!” she cried, “if you can’t see right in next door! What a lonesome-looking place! From its desolate appearance I should think the house quite empty.”

  “And it is. That’s the old Shaffer homestead. It’s been empty for a year.”

  “Oh, empty!” And she turned away, with the most inconsequent air in the world, crying out as her name rang up the stair, “There’s Arthur calling. I suppose he thinks I’ve been here long enough. I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you, officer. I really shouldn’t have slept a wink to-night, if I hadn’t been given a peep at these rooms, which I had imagined so different.” And with one additional glance over her shoulder, that seemed to penetrate both windows and the desolate space beyond, she ran quickly out and down in response to her brother’s reiterated call.

  “Drive quickly!—as quickly as the law allows, to Hiram Brown’s office in Duane Street.”

  Arrived at the address named, she went in alone to see Mr. Brown. He was her father’s lawyer and a family friend.

  Hardly waiting for his affectionate greeting, she cried out quickly. “Tell me how I can learn anything about the old Shaffer house in Seventeenth Street. Now, don’t look so surprised. I have very good reasons for my request and—and—I’m in an awful hurry.”

  “But—”

  “I know, I know; there’s been a dreadful tragedy next door to it; but it’s about the Shaffer house itself I want some information. Has it an agent, a—”

  “Of course it has an agent, and here is his name.”

  Mr. Brown presented her with a card on which he had hastily written both name and address.

  She thanked him, dropped him a mocking curtsey full of charm, whispered “Don’t tell father,” and was gone.

  Her manner to the man she next interviewed was very different. As soon as she saw him she subsided into her usual society manner. With just a touch of the conceit of the successful debutante, she announced herself as Miss Strange of Seventy-second Street. Her business with him was in regard to the possible renting of the Shaffer house. She had an old lady friend who was desirous of living downtown.

  In passing through Seventeenth Street, she had noticed that the old Shaffer house was standing empty and had been immediately struck with the advantages it possessed for her elderly friend’s occupancy. Could it be that the house was for rent? There was no sign on it to that effect, but—etc.

  His answer left her nothing to hope for.

  “It is going to be torn down,” he said.

  “Oh, what a pity!” she exclaimed. “Real colonial, isn’t it! I wish I could see the rooms inside before it is disturbed. Such doors and such dear old-fashioned mantelpieces as it must have! I just dote on the colonial. It brings up such pictures of the old days; weddings, you know, and parties;—all so different from ours and so much more interesting.”

  Is it the chance shot that tells? Sometimes. Violet had no especial intention in what she said save as a prelude to a pending request, but nothing could have served her purpose better than that one word, wedding. The agent laughed and giving her his first indulgent look, remarked genially:

  “Romance is not confined to those ancient times. If you were to enter that house to-day you would come across evidences of a wedding as romantic as any which ever took place in all the seventy odd years of its existence. A man and a woman were married there day before yesterday who did their first courting under its roof forty years ago. He has been married twice and she once in the interval; but the old love held firm and now at the age of sixty and over they have come together to finish their days in peace and happiness. Or so we will hope.”

  “Married! married in that house and on the day that—”

  She caught herself up in time. He did not notice the break.

  “Yes, in memory of those old days of courtship, I suppose. They came here about five, got the keys, drove off
, went through the ceremony in that empty house, returned the keys to me in my own apartment, took the steamer for Naples, and were on the sea before midnight. Do you not call that quick work as well as highly romantic?”

  “Very.” Miss Strange’s cheek had paled. It was apt to when she was greatly excited. “But I don’t understand,” she added, the moment after. “How could they do this and nobody know about it? I should have thought it would have got into the papers.”

  “They are quiet people. I don’t think they told their best friends. A simple announcement in the next day’s journals testified to the fact of their marriage, but that was all. I would not have felt at liberty to mention the circumstances myself, if the parties were not well on their way to Europe.”

  “Oh, how glad I am that you did tell me! Such a story of constancy and the hold which old associations have upon sensitive minds! But—”

  “Why, Miss? What’s the matter? You look very much disturbed.”

  “Don’t you remember? Haven’t you thought? Something else happened that very day and almost at the same time on that block. Something very dreadful—”

  “Mrs. Doolittle’s murder?”

  “Yes. It was as near as next door, wasn’t it? Oh, if this happy couple had known—”

  “But fortunately they didn’t. Nor are they likely to, till they reach the other side. You needn’t fear that their honeymoon will be spoiled that way.”

  “But they may have heard something or seen something before leaving the street. Did you notice how the gentleman looked when he returned you the keys?”

  “I did, and there was no cloud on his satisfaction.”

  “Oh, how you relieve me!” One—two dimples made their appearance in Miss Strange’s fresh, young cheeks. “Well! I wish them joy. Do you mind telling me their names? I cannot think of them as actual persons without knowing their names.”