Murder in the Bookshop

by Carolyn Wells

  Stone kept his temper, and even smiled a little at the irate Inspector.

  ‘Now, now, Mr Manton, remember, first of all, that I am not working with you officially, and certainly not under your orders, or even suggestions. I am distinctly on my own and I am conducting my own investigation as I see fit. But in passing, let me say that a mysterious note coming under the door, an unusually hasty dressing and a swift, silent departure are so unlike Mrs Balfour’s habits and so like her probable behaviour if she had been obeying a summons, that I consider it full justification for a belief that she did not go entirely of her own volition. I sincerely hope you are right and that she will soon return, but it is my unwilling opinion that we shall not see her soon again unless we accomplish it by our own efforts. This feeling on my part will by no means retard my activities. On the contrary it proves to me the necessity for immediate and drastic action. If the lady returns, well and good, but we dare not wait to see. We must get busy at once. As soon as Keith Ramsay comes back I shall go out, and I can’t say, as yet, just where I shall go or how long I shall be gone. And I beg of you do not curb Ramsay’s efforts, for beside his strong affection for Mrs Balfour, he has a wise head and an ingenious brain. Give him full freedom and you will be far more likely to find the lady.’

  ‘I don’t agree with all you say, Stone, but I do think we are up against it and that Ramsay is in a position to help.’

  Keith Ramsay, coming in just then, heard Manton’s last words and answered them.

  ‘I fear I am not in a position to help,’ he confessed as he sat down. ‘I did pick up a few words of information but nothing of any importance.’

  ‘Tell us about it,’ said Stone, kindly. ‘It may mean more than you think.’

  ‘I did just what I said I’d do,’ Ramsay said, a hopeless look in his eyes. ‘I spoke to perhaps half a dozen doormen, standing outside. I didn’t go inside any house. Two had not seen Mrs Balfour at all. Two saw her, but took no especial notice of her, saying only that she was dressed in very deep black. One chap, on the next block, spoke to her.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He asked her to come in and sit down for a few moments. He told me she looked so ill and distressed, he feared she was going to faint.’

  ‘Did she go in?’

  ‘No. She thanked him and said she was all right. Then she walked on, he said. Well, the next doorman was round the corner, the first house on the cross street. It is a Park Avenue apartment house with the entrance on the side. I talked to him, and it seems it was just beyond his door that the big car was parked. I asked him about it—his name is Dorlon—and he said he saw the whole incident.’

  ‘What kind of car was it?’

  ‘He didn’t know the make, just said an enormous black limousine, stream-lined, chromium-trimmed and very shiny. He didn’t get the number, he had no reason to, and he was watching the doings. He said the lady came along slowly and uncertainly. As she neared the car, the chauffeur slid out of his seat and spoke to her. Dorlon couldn’t hear the words except a sort of growly “Get in!” and the lady stepped inside. A voice in the car said shortly, “Sit down!” and the lady sat down. The chauffeur slammed the door, jumped to his place and drove off like a gliding snake—that’s what Dorlon said, “like a gliding snake”. That’s all.’

  ‘Now we know she was kidnapped,’ Manton said.

  But Stone snapped back, ‘No, we don’t know that at all!’

  CHAPTER XIV

  BENSON BUSY TOO

  FLEMING STONE had always thought that the phrase ‘like hunting for a needle in a haystack’ was an amusing bit of overstatement.

  But as he sat in his office off the library of Philip Balfour, thinking of the work ahead of him, he concluded that the haystack search was child’s play compared with his task.

  If one knew the needle was in the haystack, all he had to do was to hunt till he found it. But to know only that Alli Balfour was missing and to have no slightest hint as to her whereabouts seemed to him ‘what nature itself can’t endure’, to quote the words of Marjorie Fleming, one of his favourite authors.

  He had just concluded a short interview with Keith Ramsay. That hopeless and despairing young man had seemed to undergo a subtle change. He was as despondent as ever regarding the fate of his loved one, but he was somehow more quietly determined, more ready for persistent and definitely planned work that should be efficacious rather than spectacular.

  The nature and details of this work he was quite content to leave to Fleming Stone’s direction and offered to follow his advice in every particular.

  ‘All very well,’ Stone had told him, ‘if I had advice to offer. But needles in haystacks are easy quarry compared with our problem. Don’t you know of any friends of Mrs Balfour who might have driven her away like that on an errand having no connection with our case?’

  ‘No,’ Ramsay said, ‘no friend would have waited for her and picked her up in that extraordinary manner. From what Dorlon said, I gathered a mental picture of the waiting car with a man on the back seat waiting impatiently and telling her to get in in a none-too-kindly tone. She did so and was whisked away. Surely that sounds like the action of an evil-doer of some sort?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stone agreed; ‘certainly not the action of a well-meaning friend. First, then, to discover the identity of this man.’

  ‘And the destination of the car.’

  ‘Yes, that, too. And, Ramsay, we must plan about this house. I am going to stay here for the present. You and I will be enough to take charge of affairs. Mrs Lane is a marvel of a housekeeper, and Potter is perfection. They will attend to the ménage. Myra must stay, for Mrs Balfour may return at any moment. Mrs Lane will look after the girl, of course. I think we shall hear from Mrs Balfour, or of her, soon. I make no secret of the fact that I believe she was persuaded or forced to what she did this morning, and that as a result she was driven away to some place of concealment. Now, supposing she was promised the book if she would go to get it, what about the money? Do you know if she had it in the house to take with her, or do you suppose she went to the bank after getting in that car?’

  ‘I can’t suppose she did anything so open as to go to the bank in that conspicuous car, and yet it would seem right enough. Perhaps B.G.—I know no other name for him—went with her and they collected the money and he took her some place to make the exchange.’

  ‘That won’t wash. He could have the book in his pocket, make the exchange in the car and send her home. He said he wanted no elaborate doings.’

  ‘I know. It’s too much for me. What do you think?’

  ‘I think that, for some reason, B.G. took Mrs Balfour somewhere and is holding her for ransom. We are not dealing with a man as straightforward as he pretends to be. Greed is a disease and it grows with what it feeds on. Having received the price of the book from her, he may have concluded to get more large money by demanding it for her safe return. That is my fear and I tell you frankly, because I want you to be prepared for any event. But, remember, I may be all wrong. It is possible that Mrs Balfour went away with a friend, even though we can’t make it seem so. Suppose you call up one or two of her nearest friends and ask discreetly if they know where she is? Don’t imply she is mysteriously absent, but just that we can’t place her for the moment. Wait, though, till I call the bank.’

  But a short conversation with the paying teller proved that Alli had drawn no money from the bank that day.

  Ramsay went off to telephone one or two of Alli’s friends and Fleming Stone began to do what in lighter moments he called his ratiocination, but in desperate situations he dubbed just plain thinking.

  He fully believed that Alli had been abducted and would be held for ransom. He thought this action might have been brought about by the ‘abduction’ of the book, or, on the other hand, the book might have been a prelude to the greater abduction.

  In any case, he must act as if he were sure of the things he surmised. He must fight fire with fire, and the fact
that he didn’t know where the fire was, or where he could find any fire to fight it with, must in no way impede or delay his action.

  He grasped the telephone and put through a call to Benson, his trusty helper.

  This individual was, or had been, a street arab, but under Stone’s patronage he had become a more civilized member of the human race and was always at the disposal of the detective.

  ‘Hello, Benson,’ brought an enthusiastic, ‘Hello, Mr Stone; what about it?’

  ‘Come right along, boy, I want you.’

  ‘I’m there. Address, please?’

  Benson had caught the serious note in Stone’s voice and realized it was no time for chaffing.

  He noted down the address Stone gave him, cradled the instrument and was out of his home and into the subway with a speed Mercury might have envied.

  Reaching the Balfour apartment, he was shown at once into the safe room where Stone waited for him.

  ‘Sit down, Benson,’ he said, after shaking hands with the lad, ‘there’s bad business going.’

  ‘Spill it, sir, please,’ and the earnest interest in the lad’s wide eyes removed any touch of flippancy.

  ‘I want you to find a certain new, big, black glory-car, with very streaming lines and chromium decorations.’

  ‘Yessir. I know two.’

  ‘The one I want has—or had this morning—a chauffeur wearing a mulberry suit that didn’t fit him, or the car, either.’

  ‘No. Was it too big for him or too little?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I can doubtless find that out. Or you can.’

  ‘Any more to tell me?’

  ‘Yes, take it all in one. Go to the Benares, a large apartment house, corner Park Avenue and—’

  ‘I know where it is—coupla blocks down—’

  ‘Yes; well, go there and make up to the doorman. That is, the doorman who was on duty this morning about ten and eleven. If he isn’t there, track him down. Then ask him everything he knows about a big car that parked near his door, around the corner, you know, on the cross street.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Benson looked still expectant.

  ‘Then after you squeeze out every drop of information he can give you, find the car or some trace of it. He’ll tell you how a lady dressed in black got into the car, the chauffeur put her in and there was a man inside waiting for her and they swung off—fast! Where did they go? Who was the man? Who was the chauffeur? Whose was the car? But principally, where did they go and where are they now?’

  ‘I see.’ Benson looked grave. ‘I hope I can do it, Mr Stone, but I’ll have to have a lot o’ luck.’

  ‘Pray Heaven you’ll have it,’ and Stone spoke solemnly.

  ‘Is that a picture of the lady?’ Benson pointed to a framed miniature on the desk.

  ‘Yes, but she looks differently now. She wears all black and her face is white and sad. Bank on the car and the chauffeur, I don’t think you’ll see the lady. But you run down that doorman, his name is Dorlon, and pump him dry about the car and the driver. Then do your best, Benson, your very best, to get track of something.’

  ‘Yes, sir. When’ll I report?’

  ‘This evening, or sooner, of course, if you get anything. It’s a hard trick, I know, but if anybody can pull it off, you can.’

  ‘Yessir. Got the gentleman’s picture here, sir?’

  ‘No, I wish I had! He’s the one I want to meet. I don’t know what he looks like. Maybe you can tell me when we meet again. Don’t sigh like that, Benson. I don’t ask you to perform miracles—if I do come pretty near it. Run along now, and mind you turn Dorlon inside out.’

  Benson went off and then Stone went out on an errand.

  He was determined to use every effort to get any possible light on the man who signed himself B.G. A nervy thing to do after having stolen the Button Gwinnett book.

  He went to the office of a graphologist whom he knew and showed him the neatly written letter.

  Berger, the handwriting expert, looked at it.

  ‘Pity you don’t learn this science yourself,’ he said, being an old friend of the detective. ‘You’re over here so often asking me, you’d save time and money doing it yourself.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but you’re so handy by, and so reliable, and so honest. Anyway, what about it? Is it a natural handwriting or a faked one?’

  ‘Not exactly either. It’s the free writing of a man who writes rapidly and distinctly, but he doesn’t always write this hand. You’ve heard of multiple writers, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but tell me more about them.’

  ‘Why, they can write several different hands, as different from one another as can be. Yet they can write each style freely and with ease, showing no hesitation or carefulness as they write this one or that one. They may or may not be good at forgery, most likely they are, but that is not what we’re talking about. If you know that the man who wrote this letter does not always write this hand, it is probable that he can write several others equally well and with equal ease. This is a very fine specimen. I should not have supposed it was done by a multiple writer.’

  ‘I’m not sure that it was. But I want to know.’

  Berger reached for a magnifying glass, studied the writing and then said:

  ‘Yes, when I look for them, I see faint traces of the pauses and jerks that must be in an unused hand. But they are so few and so hard to see they are practically indiscernible save to one familiar with such tricks. I daresay the usual and well-known fist of this chap is a stiff upright with almost no curves at all.’

  ‘Well, that’s that. Can you read a bit of his character in that acquired hand?’

  ‘He’s a clever devil. Cold-blooded, ironical, heartless, and without pity or affection in his heart.’

  ‘A criminal?’

  ‘Possibly. But bad enough to be one. I see no redeeming quality here except a suave exterior.’

  ‘That doesn’t redeem much, to my mind,’ commented Stone.

  ‘No,’ Berger agreed, ‘not much. But it may help you find him. He is polite, well-bred, meticulous in small details and fond of the ladies.’

  ‘In a nice way?’

  ‘Not very—no. Verging on the sadistic, I’d say.’

  ‘Brainy?’

  ‘Clever in a cunning way. Pretends to wisdom that he doesn’t possess. Not a good friend—not at all a good friend.’

  ‘All corroborative but not indicative. It’s a help, though, in that it eliminates one or two suspects.’

  ‘Don’t bank on it too hard. Remember, graphological intimations often slip up if there are contradictory influences at work in a nature.’

  ‘All right, Berger, I’ll run along. I’m up against the worst case I’ve ever had—’

  ‘But you like a hard case?’

  ‘I do, but not where human life is endangered. Could our scribe be a murderer?’

  ‘Indeed he might. There is a kink in that direction. And showing, as it does, in an assumed handwriting it must undoubtedly be there.’

  ‘All right,’ and Stone sighed. ‘Put it on my personal bill, not for the police. Good-bye.’

  Glad of the few hints gained, but disheartened at having no individual suspect to fit them, Stone went to see Sewell.

  He found him in the back room looking over some rare pamphlets.

  ‘How’s matters and things?’ asked the book man.

  ‘Jumbled,’ Stone told him, ‘dreffly jumbled.’

  Then Sewell listened to the account of Alli’s disappearance and the description of the big car.

  ‘That ought to be a clue,’ he said. ‘But there are lots of big cars running around. Did you ever glean anything from the derby hat?’

  ‘What derby hat? Never heard of it.’

  ‘That’s queer; I told Gill to tell you about it.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t. You tell me.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing, I expect. But a chap cleaning out some rubbish here, the day after Paul Balfour’s death, found a derby in m
y ash barrel. He brought it to me, thinking it must have been thrown away by mistake, as it was a new one. I kept it, and told Gill to mention it to you—I’m so forgetful.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Hey, Preston?’

  Gill came in from the front room, and Sewell said:

  ‘Whatever became of that derby hat the cleaning man found? ’Member? I asked you to tell Mr Stone about it.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Why, I stuck it up on a high shelf and forgot all about it. Want it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stone said, frowning at Gill, who smiled back at him. One never could chide Preston Gill.

  He turned to a crowded cupboard and hunted out a derby hat with a dented crown and a bent brim.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, handed it to Stone and went whistling away.

  The detective studied it.

  ‘Maybe and maybe not,’ he said. ‘I can picture the masked man as wearing a soft hat, and then, as he came here, changing to this for the purpose of disguise and putting his soft hat in his pocket.’

  ‘H’m,’ said Sewell, dryly, ‘carrying his derby in his hand until he changed it?’

  Stone laughed. ‘No, of course, he wore the derby and then when he went out he put on the other and threw this in the ash-can. Anyhow, I’ll keep this hat; it may be helpful. Give me a bit of paper and call a messenger, will you?’

  Sewell did and, wrapping the hat, Stone sent it down to Benson with a note telling him to find out where, when and by whom it was bought.

  Though Sewell was deeply anxious about Mrs Balfour’s safety and well-being he was sure that among the police, Fleming Stone and Keith Ramsay, she would be speedily found and he could take no active part in that search. As to the book, however, he felt that in the greater crimes the volume might be forgotten or neglected, and he told Stone he meant to do anything he could himself.