CHAPTER XIII
RAMSAY GETS BUSY
HAVING told Ramsay all he had gathered from the house attendants, Stone put on his overcoat and hat and hurried down again to the street floor and out to the sidewalk.
The doorman could add nothing to his statement that Mrs Balfour had walked down the Avenue, and as she often went for a walk, he thought nothing of it.
With no definite hope of learning anything more, Stone walked on down the block and on to the next block, there seeing the policeman on the beat, who was walking south.
‘Just a moment, Officer,’ the detective said. ‘Do you know Mrs Balfour, who lives on the block above?’
‘The lady whose husband was murdered? Yes, sir, I know her when I see her.’
‘Have you seen her this morning?’
‘I have; not more’n a few minutes since. She was walkin’ alone, all in black clothes, and lookin’ that sorrowful.’
‘Walking down Park Avenue?’
‘That’s right, sir. I watched her—’
‘You did! Where did she go? Straight on down?’
‘No, sir. On the corner below this she turned east and I hustled a bit to look.’
‘And what did you see?’
‘You’re her friend, sir?’
‘I am. I’m the detective in charge of the case. The murder case. Tell me anything you saw. I’m working with Inspector Manton.’
Quite satisfied, the man walked by Stone’s side and talked.
‘She reached this corner, d’ye see, and she stood still a minute lookin’ down the cross street, and a showfer who was standin’ there stepped up to her and spoke to her. ’Course I couldn’t hear what he said, but seemed like he asked her something and she nodded her head and he led her to a car he had parked there and helped her in, and then he hops to it and drives away as fast as the law allows.’
‘Which way?’
‘Straight along east. I lost ’em in the traffic.’
‘Then the lady apparently expected the car to be there? And got in willingly?’
‘Oh, yes, sir, she musta known he was waitin’ for her. Nothin’ wrong, is there?’
‘I hope not. What was the car like?’
‘A fine one. A top-notcher. I couldn’t get the number, I was too far away. The showfer was in a good-looking livery, but not as swanky as that car called for.’
‘Well, of course it’s hopeless, but if you ever see that car or man again, get their number.’
‘I will that.’
‘What was the livery and what did the chauffeur look like?’
‘A sort of mulberry colour, I guess they call it. And the guy was a smart-lookin’ young feller with good manners and all.’
Stone sighed as he walked back to the apartment house. If the policeman had only been a bit nearer and could have seen the car’s number, or heard a word or two that was said, how good that would have been.
Yet it was much to learn those few facts. Alli had gone willingly, that was certain, though far from satisfactory. If taken by the enemy, the way must have been made easy and apparently safe.
Of course, Stone realized, the car might have belonged to one of her friends, and the chauffeur well known to her. But in such case, the car would have come to the door of her own house.
Greatly disheartened, Stone went up to the Balfour apartment.
He found Manton and Burnet there, and took them with Ramsay to the safe room for a confab.
After relating his findings, the detective looked at the others to see how they took it.
The two policemen were angry with the lady, and said she deserved anything she might get for being so foolish as to go in search of trouble.
But Ramsay, unheeding the police, turned to the detective with an agonized air.
‘Stone!’ he cried, ‘you must find her! We must find her. Inspector, you must raise the silly embargo you’ve made—I must go and find her! I can’t stay here in idleness while she may be at the mercy of a gang of thugs!’
‘I realize the seriousness of the situation, Mr Ramsay,’ Manton said, touched by the distress of the man whom he had suspected of murder. Somehow, his suspicions were allayed at sight of Ramsay’s grief. ‘But don’t rush off at random. What would you do? Where would you go? Let us all consider matters and see what had best be done. What do you suggest, Mr Stone?’
‘It is hard to think of anything to do immediately. We have no slightest notion of where to look and to rush out to the street would be of no use. I assure you I gathered everything I possibly could from the policeman on the beat, and it is a marvellous coincidence that I happened to see him, or that he happened to see Mrs Balfour. Doubtless, the next step will be a communication from the enemy, and that we shall have to wait for.’
‘I can’t do it!’ stormed Ramsay. ‘I want action and I’m going to have it!’
‘Calm down, Mr Ramsay,’ Manton said, coldly. ‘We have enough trouble without having to get a strait-jacket for you. What would your proposed action be?’
‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ and suddenly Keith Ramsay ceased blustering, and became calm, as he pulled himself together and restrained his emotion. ‘To my mind, there are quite definite efforts to make. Mrs Balfour walked at least two blocks and then turned a corner. That means she must have passed at least six or eight doormen standing outside or just inside of their doorways. I’m sure someone of these could have seen something that would be helpful for us to know. She may have met someone she knew, and may have been seen pausing for a moment to chat. Such chances must not be neglected. Let me have a try at them. I pledge you my word, Inspector, to return in a short time and report. And isn’t it time you let up on this idea you have of arresting me? Don’t you know me well enough by now to be sure I never would kill a man whose wife I loved? Do you think I could offer a woman the hand of a murderer? The soul of a murderer? There are some things beneath possibility!’
The Inspector looked at him coolly.
‘You’re doing your cause no good, Mr Ramsay, by that line of talk. As you know, I have grave suspicions that you are the murderer you disdain, and in my opinion, this whole gesture is a planned affair. If you go out, you will join Mrs Balfour and the pair of you will disappear for good and all.’
Fleming Stone looked shocked.
‘Oh, come, Inspector,’ he said, sternly, ‘that isn’t quite fair. I admit you have imagined a clever little dodge, but if you have the faintest knowledge of character, you must know better than to attribute such a game to Keith Ramsay. And again, why should he and Mrs Balfour concoct such an absurd and unnecessary plot? If they wanted to run away, they could make a dozen plans of escape with far less trouble and bother than this one. Why the note under the door, the hasty dressing of Mrs Balfour, the mummery of the chauffeur and the grand car, just to get away from a house she might have left in a simple and ordinary way?’
A slight nod of his head was all the response Ramsay gave to this good-natured argument, and centred his attention on the Inspector.
‘You have had me watched,’ he went on, ‘followed, quizzed, baited—yet you have found out nothing to corroborate your charges. You have been through my files of letters, my library accounts, my confidential work on Mr Balfour’s affairs and you have found only proofs of loyalty to my employer and helpfulness in his avocation. In your heart you have exonerated me, but you are unwilling to admit it because you have no other human being to suspect. You can find no evidence of my guilt, but you accuse me for lack of a just suspect. I am tired of it all and I demand either a removal of your espionage or a straightforward arrest, incarceration and trial. If the trial be fairly conducted I have no fear of the outcome. Nor have you and that is why you do not precipitate it.’
‘Your ranting moves me not at all, Mr Ramsay,’ and Stone looked with amazement at the Inspector’s hard face as that worthy spoke. ‘It is, as you yourself must recognize, just what you would say if you were guilty. The only thing that could prove your innocence wou
ld be to find the real murderer—’
‘Just a moment, Inspector,’ Stone interrupted; ‘you give yourself away right there. When you say, “Find the real murderer,” you tacitly admit that you are not at all certain that Keith Ramsay is the man. Now, it seems to me that Mr Ramsay’s plan of speaking to the doormen who might have seen Mrs Balfour on the street this morning, is a good plan. The doormen in this vicinity are alert, capable men, and may easily have taken notice of Mrs Balfour and know something of interest to us. Let Ramsay try out his own suggestion, and I’ll guarantee that he won’t run away.’
Manton began to argue the matter further, but Stone cut in.
‘If you’re going to agree, Inspector, do it now. The trail will be cold very soon—if anything is to be discovered, it must be looked into at once.’
‘Go to it, Ramsay,’ Manton said, a trifle grudgingly, but with a distinct effect of hopefulness. ‘Communicate with me inside of an hour, even if you stay out longer.’
Keith Ramsay left them and then Burnet lifted up his voice.
‘Not so good, Chief,’ he growled. ‘You’ll never see that baby again. She’s waitin’ for him around the corner and they’ll be in the Newark aerodrome before you can say “knife”!’
‘Well, he’s gone now,’ said Manton. ‘What shall we fly at next, Mr Stone?’
‘I’m in rather a peculiar position, Inspector,’ Stone told him. ‘I seem to be stranded. I have no employer, no case, no raison d’être of any sort. The lawyer, Scofield, is probably in charge of the estate, so I think I shall ask him to let me carry on, for I can’t drag myself away from the case at this stage.’
‘I hope you will remain, Mr Stone,’ and Manton spoke sincerely. ‘I’m sure something must break pretty soon, and it may be that we can find a surer suspect than the impetuous Ramsay.’
Stone smiled to himself over that ‘we’, but he replied cordially enough:
‘And just now,’ he said, ‘as I see it, we can do nothing but wait for some message from the enemy’s headquarters, from Mrs Balfour or from the knight-errant, Ramsay. I shall, for the present, remain in this house. I want to be right here if word comes from anybody. And someone must look after things as a whole. Potter is a blessing and he will look after the servants. If anyone in authority comes along, I will step aside. But for the moment, I’ll man the deck.’
Neither of the policemen raised any objection to this plan, and soon they went away, with Stone’s promise to advise them if anything transpired.
Whereupon Stone called Potter and informed him that he proposed to be a guest at the Balfour apartment for a time, and that he would like to be installed in the suite used successively by Mr Philip Balfour and his son Guy.
Potter listened to instructions and then sent for Mrs Lane, who was housekeeper in general, though Alli Balfour always had a judicial eye on the management.
Stone at once took a liking to Lane and felt he could leave all arrangements for his own comfort and convenience in her hands.
He went into the great library, and on into the small office, which room he adopted for his own. He knew the importance of being right on the scene in case of any emergency and he realized it afresh when the Inspector sent for him.
He found Manton and Burnet busily engaged in quizzing Wiley and Swinton, whom they had summoned for an interview.
‘Good morning,’ said Stone to the witnesses, who, he thought, looked rather bored. ‘Anything new?’
‘No,’ said Wiley, a bit pettishly. ‘A repetition of the timetable element. I’m sure I’ve told all I know over and over.’
‘Timetable?’ and Stone looked at Manton, inquiringly.
‘Yes, I want to get at the hours more closely. I mean the night of Philip Balfour’s death.’
‘That sort of information is often useful,’ Stone agreed. ‘Can I help?’
‘More than a week ago,’ Swinton complained, ‘and we’re hauled over the coals again. Oh, well, I’m willing. It was in this very room that I sat talking with Mrs Balfour while her husband was being killed. At least, that’s the way I figure it out. And there’s the little clock that told the time.’
He glanced toward the timepiece on the table—a lovely little Swiss travelling clock, cased in fine, tooled leather. ‘I don’t come here often, but I always notice that clock. It’s always right.’
‘Who takes care of it?’ Stone asked, suddenly.
‘Potter does,’ Manton said. ‘He told me he winds it and sets it by the big electric clock in the hall. Mr Balfour was very particular that it should always be correct.’
‘Yes,’ Swinton agreed, ‘I’ve heard Mr Balfour speak of it myself.’
‘Call Potter, will you?’ the Inspector said to Burnet, who pushed a button, and the butler appeared.
‘This clock, now, Potter,’ Manton said, ‘it’s always correct?’
‘Always, sir. It’s one of my duties and I never neglect it.’
‘Think back to the night Mr Balfour died—Mr Philip Balfour. Was the clock right that night, to your personal knowledge?’
‘It was, sir. I remember well.’
‘All right, Potter, you may go.’
‘Reliable man, Potter,’ commented Swinton, as the butler left them. ‘Now, Inspector, I’ve said this before, but I want to repeat it. If I can be of any help in this affair, do let me. Isn’t there something to do like going to see people or hunting some information where you don’t want to send any of your men? I’m sure my tact and judgment would carry me through such an interview successfully, and it might help you a lot.’
‘I can’t, at the moment, think of any assignment for you,’ Manton returned, ‘but I’ll bear your offer in mind and I may be glad to take advantage of it. Just now, I’m checking up on the alibis. I’ll frankly confess that’s why I asked you two men to come up here just now.’
‘Perhaps you could help us out on those, Mr Swinton?’ and Stone looked at him inquiringly. ‘Your own alibi being vouched for by the steadfast little clock, can’t you investigate some of the other alibis that stand in the way of nailing our suspects? Mr Wiley, I understand, gave the Inspector a satisfactory account of his doings that evening.’
‘Of course,’ and Wiley waved an aristocratic hand as if to push away all contact with sordid matters. He had made no offer of assistance, and Stone was glad of it. Amateur helpers were always a nuisance.
But he knew that Swinton was a long-time friend of the Balfours and hoped he might prove of some slight use.
‘Why, yes,’ Carl Swinton showed a decided interest. ‘Who are your quarries? I might run one of them to earth.’
Whereupon, with serious directions as to secrecy and discretion, Stone mentioned the names of Preston Gill and Jack Rollinson. He told Swinton if he cared to investigate the alibis of these two men, he would be given whatever data the police had on the subject.
Swinton’s enthusiasm seemed to cool a trifle as the plan took shape, but he stood by his offer and listened to instruction.
Then he said, ‘Is Mrs Balfour at home? I’d like to see her, as a friend. I’ve refrained from calling, but if she will see me, I’ll be very glad.’
Stone looked at Manton inquiringly, and the Inspector looked uncertain.
Captain Burnet settled the question by blurting out the truth.
‘Mrs Balfour is not at home,’ he said, bluntly. ‘We don’t know where she is.’
‘What!’ cried Swinton. ‘Has she disappeared?’
Wiley, staring, seemed beyond all power of speech and Stone took hold of the situation.
‘Mrs Balfour dressed for a walk and went out this morning, and has not yet returned. But I see no reason to use the word “disappeared”.’
As a matter of fact, Stone saw very grave reason to use that alarming word, but he frequently passed up truth in favour of diplomacy.
‘I see,’ and Swinton exhibited no further excitement. ‘She often goes for a morning walk, I frequently see her in the elevator or lobby. I will go, then, a
nd after thinking it out a bit, I’ll see what I can do as an investigator. I promise every precaution and care.’
Swinton left them, and Wiley began to lament.
‘If there is the slightest uncertainty about Mrs Balfour’s safety,’ he said, ‘how can you all sit here idle? You should be making the most strenuous efforts to rescue the lady—’
‘Bell-ringers are out of date, Mr Wiley,’ and Stone frowned a little. ‘Nor would we profit by a “calling all cars” order. We have no reason to think Mrs Balfour is in need of rescue, as you term it. Nor do we want you to spread the news of her absence. Please understand the whole affair is strictly in the hands of the police and any ill-advised move of yours will be a matter for their consideration.’
This gave Wiley pause and he changed the subject.
‘Doubtless she will return soon,’ he said, ‘meantime, I will await her in the library. I can occupy myself there.’
‘I think not, Mr Wiley,’ and Stone again frustrated his intention. ‘The library is exclusively in charge of Mr Ramsay and Mr Sewell. Without an order from one of them, no one can be allowed in the library.’
‘Are you in charge here, Mr Stone? I thought matters were in the hands of the police.’
‘Mr Stone is working with the police,’ the Inspector told him, ‘and for the present, he is one of us. In this house, his word is law, until Mrs Balfour returns, at any rate.’
‘Your manner makes me think you desire me to leave,’ Wiley said, with great hauteur. ‘I take no offence at that, and I will remind you that in case you want any assistance with the books in Mr Balfour’s collection, I am both able and willing to lend a hand. Of course, my knowledge is far greater than Mr Ramsay’s, who is merely a librarian; I am a collector.’
When a famous king remarked that he was the state, he could have shown no more vanity and importance than Pete Wiley showed then.
And on this bumptious note he left them.
‘Notwithstanding your denial to Wiley,’ the Inspector said, as they were alone again, ‘I know you do think Mrs Balfour was, in some way, induced to go out this morning by some request or command of the people who killed her husband or stole the book, or both. I think you take a great deal upon yourself, Mr Stone, when you take that for granted. And I think you quite overstep the bounds of wisdom and propriety when you spread abroad the news of the lady’s disappearance.’
Murder in the Bookshop Page 16
