Yet, again, when he remembered that Balfour scoffed at this confession, and made light of what he called a silly flirtation, there was certainly a possibility that given the unexpected opportunity to remove the obstacle to his happiness, Ramsay might have acted on a sudden fierce impulse and committed the deed that cleared the way.
After all, they had only Keith Ramsay’s word as to the masked intruder. There was no one to corroborate the story Ramsay told so glibly.
To be sure, everything Stone had seen or known about the librarian he had liked. He considered Ramsay a square-dealing, honourable man.
But there again, there was no one to witness his alleged confession to Balfour, no one to agree that Balfour had scoffed at the ‘flirtation’.
And Ramsay was exceedingly clever. Had he been the killer, Stone was positive that he would have made up some such plausible story, and doubtless could have put it over.
To the best of Fleming Stone’s knowledge and belief, cleverness made the successful criminals. He believed brain, not brawn, was the necessary element in all great crimes.
If there was any doubt about Ramsay, there was grave doubt. So grave that Stone put him at the head of his list of perhapses.
And next, with regret, he put down the name of Preston Gill.
He liked Gill and he felt sure that Sewell was too canny to keep his assistant if he weighed up lacking. But for a young man of Gill’s attainments, the temptations offered by the many rare volumes must of necessity be at times very great.
And the masked assailant could easily have been Gill. He could have made his calls, as he detailed them, but perhaps not at the times he stated. He could have killed Philip Balfour for a number of reasons: either connected with rare books or with the beautiful wife of the great collector. And Gill, like Ramsay, was ingenious enough to compass that mysterious murder with neatness and dispatch.
So much for Gill. And if there was anything wrong about him, Sewell knew nothing of it. That man never would keep an assistant of whom any wrongdoing could be suspected.
So Gill went down second on Stone’s list.
Then along came Guy.
During Stone’s visit to the rooms which had been the senior Balfour’s he had sized up the son to a considerable degree.
And, while he found it hard to imagine Guy guilty of parricide, yet he realized that the friends and the environment of this pleasure-loving youth were not of a sort to steady his character or improve his morals.
It was within the bounds of comprehension that Guy, who admitted being in a place he was ashamed of, might have had more than enough to drink, and might have achieved a spirit of derring-do, or even arrived at a state of mental instability, though physically truculent. What had then happened left room for wide speculation. Perhaps egged on by greedy companions, who would blackmail him afterward. Perhaps only intending to steal the precious Gwinnett book, and driven to murder by circumstances.
Yes, difficult as it was to reconstruct the awful crime, it must be reckoned with.
So the third name was Guy Balfour.
And, Stone told himself, he had no further names to put down.
There were the Balfour servants, to be sure, but after the police report of their interviews, there seemed no one of them in any way implicated. Potter might know more than he had told of family matters, but he was assuredly in the apartment all the evening, and could not have slipped away long enough to accomplish the fatal deed.
There were fellow collectors who might be envious or jealous of some of Balfour’s lucky finds in the way of rare books, but as a rule, collectors are not of the murdering class. It may be argued that there is no murdering class, but scholars are not often suspected of murder.
Stone pondered. The two men who lived in the house had no claim to a place on his list, he concluded. Swinton was not much interested in old books and Wiley, though interested, had no grudge against the greater collector; indeed, rather seemed to think he knew more about the subject, if Balfour did have the larger and more valuable lot.
And then, as Stone had feared they would, his thoughts turned to Alli, the strange beautiful wife of the murdered man, and the secret inamorata of his trusted secretary.
Stone’s pencil refused to write Alli Balfour’s name, until he realized he was not playing fair and he slowly inscribed it.
He thought hard and long.
He couldn’t conjure up a vision of Alli, the embodiment of dignity and grace, killing or having any part in the killing of her husband.
He would have cast the monstrous idea from his brain, save that he was a conscientious reasoner, and he knew that he strove to get away from the notion because it was so repugnant to his own feelings.
He made himself consider it seriously.
It was idiotic to say Alli couldn’t have been the murderer because she was so beautiful or so graceful or so dignified! He had to admit that in all stages of the world’s history wives had murdered their husbands in fact as well as in fiction.
And Alli, he had already discovered, was as clever as they come.
Moreover, her love for Keith Ramsay, concealed, as she thought, was palpably evident to him.
Fleming Stone’s long career in the investigation of crime had brought him into contact with all sorts and conditions of women and he knew for certain that there is no human being, of either sex, entirely exempt from the possibility of committing a crime.
Great loves have been the cause of many a crime in fiction, as we know, and in truth, as we do not always know.
And Alli Balfour was a strong character, a woman of deep passions and swayed by deep affections.
She had lived three years with a husband twenty years her senior. She had then been thrown with a man who complemented her own nature so perfectly, who was so entirely congenial, so at one with all her tastes and preferences, that it was small wonder she could not bear to think of his leaving her.
As to the details of this view of things, Stone cared little. If Alli Balfour had made up her mind to do away with her husband, the ways and means would be duly and properly attended to by the lady herself. Whether she chose to strike the blow or hire an underling to do it or persuade her lover to attend to it, it would be accomplished with wisdom and foresight.
Stone couldn’t see it, couldn’t get it at all, but he knew he must not evade it.
To a stranger it would not sound so unbelievable.
The circumstances were far from unique. The conditions far from prohibitive.
Stone remembered every word of what Ramsay had told him when he so frankly confessed his love for Alli and honourably announced his decision to go away.
Then, supposing Alli could not let him go and suppose she alone, or in collusion with him, made his going unnecessary?
Well, it had to be followed up. And followed up by the wretchedest means. Means that included prying, listening, secret questioning, equivocation, spying and traps.
Then, he concluded, if so, he would set about it at once. If Alli Balfour killed her husband or was in any way implicated in his killing, Stone wanted to know it, finish up the distasteful business and get out!
He determined to go to see Sewell. He could ask him about Mrs Balfour, and also pump him a little, very carefully, about Gill.
He found the genial bookseller in his front office, but they at once adjourned to the back room as being more secluded.
Gill was out on some errands, for which Stone was grateful, as he wanted to see Sewell alone.
‘Who killed Balfour?’ Stone said, as they sat down in two comfortable as well as valuable old chairs.
‘Well, who did?’ echoed Sewell. ‘Didn’t I drag you into this case on purpose for you to find that out?’
‘What price Mrs Balfour herself? Or her hireling.’
Sewell stared at his guest.
‘Are you serious?’ he asked, speaking slowly.
‘I am. I have just had a thinking spell and while I’m not putting this idea forth as a theory
, nor even as a proposition, I consider it a suggestion that must be met.’
‘I’ll agree to that,’ said Sewell, whose logical mind saw this necessity at once. ‘What are your arguments?’
‘Only the usual formula: young wife, elderly husband; attractive young man in the household; sympathy of interests, deepening and broadening into love. So one or other or both at last yield to the urge of their affection and remove the barrier that keeps them apart.’
‘There is no positive repudiation to your data and it does follow the routine course of such a situation. But I can’t—’
‘Stop there. I know you can’t. I don’t ask you to. I’m here only to ask you what you know definitely and positively of the relation of the two Balfours.’
‘I didn’t really know much more than all the world knows. I watched the three shaping the usual triangle, but I hoped their fine minds and their clean hearts would bring them through free of smirch or stain.’
‘You’re my idea of a first-class optimist. Think you they were brought through?’
‘I don’t know, Stone—I don’t know. But I begin to have doubts.’
‘I’ll tell you what ails you, Sewell. You don’t want to suspect Mrs Balfour or Ramsay, because you feel very friendly toward them. But—and here’s the rub—you know if you don’t suspect either or both of them, you’ll have to turn your thoughts to one toward whom you feel even more kindly, your own assistant, Gill.’
‘Never!’ and John Sewell looked belligerent. ‘You don’t know Gill as I do. Why, I’d believe in Ramsay’s guilt far sooner than I would in Gill’s! That chap is a one-er! He’s been with me five years and I know his worth.’
‘Hasn’t he, now and then, sold some little item, and—and forgot to record it?’
‘If he did, it was his own book. I often give him a book to do what he likes with. Sometimes he sells them and sometimes he keeps them. He has a fair collection of his own. Never you mind about investigating Preston Gill. He’s true blue. Now, look here, Stone, I’ve had a letter.’
‘A ransom letter? About the Button book?’
‘No. About the two people we’ve been talking of, Mrs Balfour and Ramsay.’
‘When did you get the letter? It’s only mid-afternoon now. Quick work on somebody’s part! Come by mail?’
‘No, that’s the queer part. It was tucked under the front door, like a valentine.’
Stone held out his hand in silence.
Also without speech, Sewell handed him a letter.
Stone studied it a moment before taking the sheet out.
He saw an ordinary Government-stamped envelope addressed properly, to the book dealer, in an illiterate but painstaking hand.
‘Clever,’ Stone said, nodding his head at the superscription. ‘That is not the disguised handwriting of one who can write better, it is the work of an ignorant and unpractised writer, presumably a woman. What’s inside?’
‘Read it and see.’
Stone drew the letter carefully from its envelope and looked curiously at the page.
‘See what it is!’ he cried.
‘A fly-leaf,’ and Sewell smiled; ‘and first-rate paper, too. Can you deduce the author, publisher, title and date from that?’
‘That’s your business,’ Stone retorted. ‘I’m not a publishing expert. But I’d say it’s a fly-leaf from a novel put out by one of our best publishing houses. Or maybe a book of poetry or belles-lettres.’
‘You’re pretty well right. I might add it’s one of Finch and Hallon’s books, but I’m not sure.’
Stone was scanning the contents, greatly interested.
The letter was not written, but was made up of words cut from a printed page and pasted into place.
‘An old dodge,’ he observed, ‘but one of the best if the clipped papers are carefully destroyed. But what’s all this?’
‘Read it out,’ advised Sewell.
‘It begins merely “Sewell” with no other word of address. That looks as if he—or she—doesn’t know you but wants to pretend acquaintance.’
‘Why do you think of a woman?’
‘This pasting trick is more like a woman. I can’t see a man fiddling with these tiny scraps of paper.’
‘Unless he’s an editor or a compiler. It would come natural to them.’
‘Good point. Well, it starts off breezily enough. “Don’t you worry about your precious Gill. He is all right. He is one of my boy friends and he has too much character to commit any crimes. If you want to find the villain who killed the rich man, look nearer home. His death lies at the door of his lady-wife. I don’t say she struck the blow, but her parrymore did. The three went to your shop, sneaked in a window, ostensibly on some book business, and then, the two conspiritors chlorryformed the poor man and one of them made the dagger play. All this so they could be rid of him and marry each other. You watch them scoot for a licence as soon as its fairly decent and maybe not that long. Anyway, turn your goggles on them and not on innocent Preston Gill. From a Lover of Justice.” How’s that for a faked-up letter?’
‘I know, Stone, but it may be true in the main. Ramsay has been the outstanding suspect from the start. Oh, I’m not saying he did it—or she either, but it makes a plausible story.’
‘Of course it does, and we’ll look into it thoroughly. Let’s do a little on it now. What paper do you think these words were cut from?’
‘Oh, some city newspaper. Looks like the type of The Times to me.’
‘Yes, it is The Times. Chosen, doubtless, because of its ubiquity. Hard to trace words cut from a daily paper. And you see, the determined author of the letter would use no other print. If she couldn’t find the word she needed, she did the best she could. See, conspirators is not spelled wrong purposely. It is made up of three parts. Our artist in paste couldn’t find the word, so she used con, then added spirit and then clipped ors from some other word, like doctors or motors, and tacked it on. Not difficult but very ingenious. I like that chlorryformed even better than the way the dictionary has it. She found lorry and formed and then picked up a ch from some word and tucked it in. Put that letter among your rare documents—not holograph, though. What do you make of the sender?’
‘A lunatic, I’d say!’
‘Far from it. A well-ordered brain devised that ruse, and I’m hoping it will be his undoing.’
‘I thought you had already deduced a woman correspondent? How you jump about!’
‘Yes, it may be a woman, but I don’t think it so likely as I did.’
‘Why not?’
‘A little too logical for one thing. But of this I’m fairly sure. It is from the criminal—from the person who stabbed Philip Balfour. Who else would write that note? Who else would care whether Gill was suspected or not? The criminal knows that the evidence against Preston Gill is too slight, while the evidence against Ramsay, as the letter-writer states it, is damning. Now to discover who that letter-writer or, rather, letter-paster is. I know I suggested that a lot of pasting meant a woman’s work. But it doesn’t, necessarily. Make-up men, in a newspaper office, use paste all the time. These words are not perfectly pasted, but they are not amateur work, either. You can see by the way they are clipped, evidently with long clipping shears, and the way the ends are butted together that it is not the work of a careless flapper.’
‘Maybe Preston will know something about it.’
‘I doubt it, for I don’t think the sender of this note knows Gill at all.’
‘Now how do you get that way?’
‘It just seems so. I think it is somebody who has it in for Mr Ramsay or Mrs Balfour. Oh, looky now! It might be young Balfour!’
‘In the name of common sense, why? Where’s any possible hint that Guy is fond of Mrs Balfour?’ Sewell seemed bewildered.
‘That’s it. He may desire to get Ramsay so caught in the meshes of doubt and uncertainty that he may be convicted, while the lady would, of course, go free.’
‘Purely speculative, old top. Try
again. At any rate, the anonymous one hasn’t harmed Gill any, whatever he has done to the lovers. And I suppose you’ve noticed that Guy Balfour also is in love with his stepmother?’ Sewell looked at his friend inquiringly.
‘Yes, I’ve noticed indications to that effect, but the whole thing is getting to be too much of a crime passionnel. I mean to turn my attention to the theft of the book, first, and I fully expect that will lead us straight to the murder motive.’
‘All right, then. Who benefits by the possession of that book? Only someone who can so manage its sale that he will profit financially. Who can do such managing? Only one who knows quite a bit about selling rare books, but not necessarily one who knows what’s inside them. Who are such in this case? Nearly everybody. Mrs Balfour, Mr Ramsay, young Balfour, myself, Gill, and, incidentally, the butler up at the Balfours’, and one or two of the other servants. A sharp-witted man can’t be around such a bookish house without getting more or less wise to the values.’
‘Right, from start to colophon! So, it seems we have plenty of suspect fodder. Can’t you help me, Sewell? I mean, take over some of these suspects, weigh ’em up and give me a final decision as to their guilt or innocence?’
‘I’ll have a try at it if—if you’ll leave Gill to me.’
‘Sure I’ll leave Gill to you, you’re the one to do him. Now, I take it you’re going to hand that letter over to the police, pronto?’
‘Well, yes—I suppose so.’
‘Why not? It’ll put Gill square with them.’
‘That’s just it. I’m afraid they’ll think he did it.’
‘Lord, man, you are cautious. Well, give the letter to me, and I’ll use my judgment about it.’
‘Yes, I’d rather do that. You take the responsibility.’
‘And what shall we do about telling Gill?’
‘He ought to know it—’
‘I think not. Suppose you tell him the gist of the part about himself but not about the other two? I don’t want that to get about, yet Gill ought to know of his friend’s kindness. Besides, he may be able to state where it came from.’
Murder in the Bookshop Page 9
