He tried while in Trentwood to learn more about the girl, but it seemed she had been of Lucy’s class—‘a violet by a mossy stone, half hidden from the eye’.
Yet Stone knew, none better, that three years’ absence is enough to wipe out personal memories, and he sighed as he concluded he could learn more of Alli from her present-day self than by what any of her old acquaintances could tell him.
A good-natured young shopkeeper, whose stock seemed to run to stationery and artists’ materials, appeared to know more about the girl than most. In fact, he admitted, he was desperately in love with her himself when she lived in the little town.
‘Probably most of the young chaps were,’ Stone surmised.
‘They sure were!’ and the uninteresting historian nodded his blondish head. ‘Every last one of them. And she threw over the whole lot for that man old enough to be her father!’
‘Why?’
‘His millions. Most of us fellows had little to offer her and she wanted lots.’
‘Weren’t there two men here at that time, named Wiley and Swinton?’
‘Never heard of Wiley. Swinton lived here for a short time.’
‘Was he in love with the beautiful Miss Cutler, too?’
‘I d’ know about that. But he was going to paint her or thought he was. He was always trying to get sitters.’
‘Could he paint?’
‘Not he! But he’d come in here and buy a lot of gamboge and yellow ochre and make out he was a genius. I never saw any portrait he did.’
‘And Wiley you don’t know? Pete Wiley?’
‘Nope. Say, tell me, who bumped off the old man? Wonder if Alli’ll marry again?’
‘A little soon to think of that, eh?’
‘Not for a woman. No, sir. Oh, well, I’ve some work to do. Can I help you any more, sir?’
Stone didn’t say that he hadn’t helped him any, as yet, but he couldn’t feel that any of the stationer’s news was valuable. But he observed the amenities and went back to the railroad station, feeling that he had gained nothing from his trip save a knowledge that there was nothing to be gained in the mildly pretty village of Trentwood.
That was a couple of days ago. He had sent a trusted ambassador to Chicago to track down any rampageous stories he could about Pete Wiley. But though willing and eager, the messenger found no rest for the sole of his foot, and returned with the information that no one in Chicago knew Wiley and no one wanted to.
Stone honourably admitted to himself that he was nearing the end of his rope, but added, also to himself, that in such case he must merely let out more rope.
Near the end of his rope, then, and knowing that at the end he must find Alli, he commanded himself to think seriously of Keith Ramsay.
It seemed an anti-climax after his hopes of stirring up a hornets’ nest in Trentwood, but he took up again the threadbare arguments.
Ramsay had motive and opportunity and a weapon ready to hand.
Yes, he told himself, sarcastically, so he had heard.
He knew every detail of Keith’s motive and how strong it was; of Keith’s opportunity and how convenient it was; of Keith’s weapon and how sharp it was. Those were all concrete things.
Now, as to the psychology of the occasion, could Keith Ramsay, loving Alli Balfour as he did and being the upright, clean-handed man that he was, could he kill the lady’s present husband and then expect her to marry him after that? And if he didn’t expect her to marry him, why undertake the dreadful and dangerous enterprise at all?
All the fine talk about leaving Mr Balfour’s service because of his honourable impulses cut very little ice with Fleming Stone. The criminal of deepest dye would tell some such story in an endeavour to prove his innocence.
He concluded upon his plan of action and started for the Balfour apartment to put it to work.
There he found Ramsay, looking deeply perplexed and even more distressed.
‘I’m glad to see you,’ Keith greeted him, though looking too perturbed for gladness. ‘I wish you’d come into the safe room for a few minutes.’
‘Of course,’ and the two men entered and closed the door.
‘I had a talk with Alli last night,’ Ramsay began, not waiting for preliminaries. ‘She’s all for going to see the mysterious keeper of the missing book.’
‘I’d be glad to see her go,’ Stone said, slowly, ‘but she mustn’t go alone.’
‘I know,’ Keith responded, ‘but who can go with her that they would allow? Not you or me, surely.’
‘No, probably not. But if they would send someone of their own crowd, I don’t for a minute think they would harm Mrs Balfour, and a guardian from them would assure her safety. They want her only in order to get the money. That’s always the trouble with a secret barter and sale. How to effect the exchange of the goods for the price? This time it ought to be easy enough as both parties are getting what they want.’
‘But she can’t go until they send her some address or some directions about how to go. She’s crazy to start off, and has no tinge of fear.’
‘I don’t think we need have any real fear, but the whole sum is a lot of money for her to carry unless she is very strictly guarded.’
‘I don’t think she’ll get those further instructions. You see, Stone, they thought it would be easy when they began to lay their plans, but now it isn’t such clear sailing.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Only from common sense. They’re going very slowly, you may note, and they are finding it hard to keep themselves hidden.’
‘Leaving them, for the moment, what is the police attitude—toward you?’
‘They throw out a hint now and then that they are about to arrest me. But they don’t do it. I’m sure they will, though, just as soon as they can get a trifle more evidence or proof. One more black mark against my spotless character would give them their head and they’d nab me. I’d not care much, in fact I wish they’d do it and get it over. I imagine I’d fare better at a trial than at their everlasting baiting.’
‘You might. But think of Mrs Balfour’s distress if you should be arrested.’
‘I know. But the blessed angel feels as I do about it. She thinks if I were arrested and jailed and tried and acquitted the whole sky would be cleared and the sun shine again. That is—if—’
‘Yes, if.’ Fleming Stone looked very serious. ‘If you’re willing, Ramsay, and if Mrs Balfour is willing, I’d like to have a little confab with you two. Do you ever see her alone?’
‘Very seldom. I wish I might, but we think it best to keep apart—’
‘Yes, I know. Where is she now?’
‘In her rooms, I think. I’ll call Potter.’
Ramsay pushed a button and in a moment Potter came.
‘Do you know where Mrs Balfour is?’ Ramsay asked him.
‘No, sir. Shall I find Myra, her maid, and inquire?’
‘Yes, and then ask her, or tell Myra to ask her to come to us in this room at once. Is the Inspector about?’
‘I haven’t seen him this morning, sir.’
‘Very well, find Mrs Balfour for us, then.’ Potter departed and Ramsay went on: ‘If you can advise us in any way, Stone, we’d be mighty glad.’
‘I don’t mean to advise you two, Ramsay, but I may make a suggestion or two, which you can consider and do as you please about.’
Potter returned, and with an odd look on his face, he said:
‘We cannot find Mrs Balfour anywhere.’
Ramsay looked alarmed immediately, but Stone said calmly, ‘Who saw her last, Potter?’
‘I don’t rightly know, sir. She had her breakfast in her room. Shall I send Myra to you?’
‘Yes, send her right in here. Tell her to hurry.’
Myra appeared, and from the girl’s white face and trembling lips, Stone apprehended some further mystery.
‘Tell me of Mrs Balfour’s plans for today,’ he said, speaking gently to calm her evident fears.
‘S
he had no definite plans, sir, that I know of. She had no appointment with her modiste or milliner and she expected no guest until afternoon, when she looked for her friend, Mrs Metcalfe.’
‘Where was she when you last saw her?’
‘Sitting in her boudoir. She had had her breakfast served there, as usual, and was about to write some letters. There are many letters of condolence awaiting acknowledgment and it is a burden on her.’
‘To be sure,’ and Stone spoke sympathetically. ‘Have you any reason to think Mrs Balfour went out anywhere?’
‘Not likely, sir. She would have called me to help her dress.’
‘What was she wearing?’
‘A white morning frock. She could not wear that out of doors.’
‘No. Is any street gown or coat missing from her wardrobe?’
‘I haven’t looked but it would hardly be possible. I always get out her clothes for her—’
‘Where were you after leaving Mrs Balfour?’
‘I went to the sewing room, to finish a piece of work.’
‘From that room could you have heard Mrs Balfour if she had moved around, dressing herself to go out?’
Myra looked uncertain.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think about it. If Mrs Balfour wanted me she would have rung for me. I never thought of listening.’
‘I wish you would go upstairs, Myra, and look in the wardrobes. If any of Mrs Balfour’s street clothes are missing, let me know.’
‘I suppose, Stone,’ Ramsay said, as the girl went away, ‘you are thinking that Alli has gone to see the people who have the book. I don’t think she would do that without telling me. We had a talk last night and began to plan a little. The situation must be met, you know. And a mode of life must be arranged for. We two love one another and we expect to marry after a decent interval. Meantime, convention will not allow of our living here together without some sort of duenna or companion for Alli. I want to stay here for there is much work to do in the library and it is infinitely more convenient for me to be here than to come every day. And since we have no one to consider but ourselves, why shouldn’t we live as happily as we can until we can be married? Don’t think I’ve forgotten the possibility of my arrest, but I am innocent of either of those murders and if I am accused I shall fight to a finish. I am hoping, yes, and expecting to have my innocence recognized, but if I’m in for arrest and trial, let us hope it won’t mean conviction. We talked this all over last night and Alli thinks she will ask a friend of hers, Mrs Metcalfe, to come here and live with her, thus satisfying the tongues of gossip. All this is why I think Alli would never have gone off to those people without letting me know.’
Myra came back then and said she thought Mrs Balfour must have gone out, as one of her new black street gowns was missing, also a lightweight black coat and one of her black hats.
‘Did you notice as to bag, gloves and such accessories?’ Stone inquired.
‘Yes, sir; a long black suède bag is not in its place, and a pair of black suède gloves are not in her glove drawer. A pair of walking shoes, also—in fact, all the things she would wear are missing. I must conclude she dressed herself and went out somewhere.’
‘How about the things she took off?’ asked Ramsay, anxious on every point.
‘They are all there in her dressing room—her house gown, her slippers, stockings—all—and that she didn’t call me makes me very surprised.’
‘Let us go up there,’ Stone said, suddenly, rising and motioning for Myra to lead the way.
Ramsay followed, and the three entered Alli’s boudoir.
Stone at once noticed a half-finished page on the writing pad, and read it.
‘This is to a cousin, apparently in answer to a note of sympathy,’ he said; ‘I think we must conclude that Mrs Balfour was writing letters when she was interrupted by some thought, or perhaps some message, and decided to go on some hasty errand. Myra, would Mrs Balfour dress more quickly with or without your aid?’
‘Without, Mr Stone. When a maid helps dress a lady, there is more or less formality and detail. When Mrs Balfour dresses herself, she is like a small whirlwind. A garment is whisked off and another on with the lightning’s speed. I’ve seen her and it seems as if in a moment she is garbed as perfectly as I could have done it for her.’
Stone went on into the dressing room. As Myra had said, discarded garments were flung on chairs or otherwhere and white slippers and stockings lay on the floor.
‘Mrs Balfour is never untidy,’ Myra observed, picking things up. ‘She must have been in the greatest haste.’
‘Look about,’ Stone directed the maid, ‘and see if Mrs Balfour took money or valuables with her. Can you tell?’
‘I think not,’ Myra replied. ‘I mean I think I can’t tell. Mrs Balfour’s bag has a purse inside it, nearly all her bags have. I don’t know what was in the purse. Her jewels are in that small safe. I don’t know the combination. Also, the upper drawer of the Chinese cabinet is always kept locked. I don’t know where the key is. But Mrs Balfour most certainly dressed herself and went away on some errand.’
‘Look at her dressing table,’ Stone went on. ‘Did she take anything as if for an overnight stay?’
‘No,’ said Myra, after a glance. ‘She probably carried a small compact in her bag, but she took none of her brushes or creams.’
‘Just gone out on a shopping errand or something of that sort,’ Keith assumed, but Stone shook his head.
‘Why the hurried dressing and the omission of calling Myra?’ he asked. ‘No, Ramsay, I don’t want to alarm you but I think we must follow up this thing at once. Myra, if Mrs Balfour wanted to go out unseen, how would she manage it? I mean is there any other than the main entrance?’
‘Only the tradesmen’s and servants’ entrance at the back.’
‘Would Mrs Balfour use that?’
‘She never has.’ Myra’s eyes opened wide. ‘I don’t think she would go out that way.’
‘It would create more commotion than for her to go out the front door,’ Ramsay said.
‘That will do, Myra, you may go,’ and Stone started downstairs again with Ramsay following.
The detective called Potter, and questioned him closely.
‘Tell me, Potter,’ he began, ‘to your knowledge, did Mrs Balfour get any message or letter not through the mail?’
‘Yes, sir; I carried a letter to her myself.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘It came under the door, Mr Stone.’
‘And you took it direct to Mrs Balfour?’
‘Yes, sir, as soon as I found it.’
‘Where was the lady then?’
‘In her boudoir, sir, writing letters.’
‘You didn’t hand it to Myra?’
‘No, sir. Mrs Balfour gave me strict orders to give her all her letters, personally, myself.’
‘She has a very large mail?’
‘Oh, yes. She looks it over and picks out the library letters. There are lots of book catalogues and advertisements.’
‘But she goes over it all?’
‘Every morning, sir.’
‘Tell me of this letter you gave her this morning. Tell every detail of your giving it to her.’
‘I saw it under the door, picked it up and took it up to her rooms, at once.’
‘What was Mrs Balfour doing?’
‘She sat at her desk, in her boudoir. She was writing letters. She had already written quite a pile. I took them away to mail.’
‘What did the letter you brought look like?’
‘It was just a plain white oblong envelope. Not stamped, you know.’
‘Pushed under the door, then, by a messenger?’
‘It looked like that.’
‘What did Mrs Balfour say? How did she look? Be very frank, Potter. What you tell us may be of very great help to Mrs Balfour. Did she seem alarmed?’
‘No, not alarmed, so much as surprised, and—I think, a b
it excited. She went pale like, and her eyes sort of stared, then she grabbed for a letter opener, and slit it open. She took out a sheet of white paper and read it quickly; it looked like a short letter. Then she said, “You may go, Potter,” and she read it over again. As I was going through the door, she said, “Don’t mention this to anybody, Potter, remember that!” But I am telling you because you say it may help her.’
‘Perfectly right. Tell everything you can. Did you see Mrs Balfour go out later?’
‘No, sir. But I thought I heard the front door close. I couldn’t imagine any reason for that, but I went to look and I opened the door, but there was no one about.’
‘At what time was this?’
‘I couldn’t say. But perhaps fifteen minutes after I had left her boudoir.’
‘That would make it—?’
‘About half-past ten or quarter to eleven. But I’m not sure about the time.’
‘What was Mrs Balfour wearing?’
‘It must have been a black gown, coat and hat. She wears always black now when she goes out.’
‘She was walking?’
‘That I don’t know. She didn’t call any of her own cars, but she may have taken a taxi.’
Abruptly, Stone left the room, and left the apartment. He went to the nearest elevator and asked if it was the one Mrs Balfour used.
The attendant told him it was; and in response to further questioning said that Mrs Balfour had gone down in his car between half-past ten and eleven. She was much as usual, smiled at him pleasantly, but seemed preoccupied, or, as he put it, sorta wool-gathering.
The doorman also told of Alli’s exit, saying she went out and walked straight down Park Avenue at a brisk pace. He noticed nothing unusual about her manner, saying she was pleasantly polite, as always.
Stone went back upstairs with his news, which was no news, save the facts that Alli went away of her own accord and that, except for a slight absent-mindedness, she was just as usual.
But the two men most deeply interested felt sure that she had been summoned to meet the thieves, if not the murderers, and were forced to believe that she had walked straight into the lion’s mouth.
Murder in the Bookshop Page 15
