He told him in a few words of the death of Fleming Stone and said he would advise him as to the time of the funeral.
Alli called Myra and went off to her own rooms.
Keith Ramsay went to the library and remained there to await any messages or calls.
After a while Sewell telephoned, speaking from Stone’s home.
‘Everything is being done that can be done,’ he said. ‘Stone’s cousin is here—his name is Knight. He’s looking after everything. The funeral will be tomorrow, from the funeral chapel. At two o’clock. It seems soon, but Mr Knight thinks it’s best. I’ll see you again tonight.’
In the afternoon Wiley came and asked for Ramsay.
‘Thought I’d come in, on a little matter of business,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wondering if perhaps Mrs Balfour wouldn’t like to sell some of her books. Not the important ones, you know, but some of the lower lights. It must be a great care to her to have so many and I thought she might welcome a chance to sell off some at an advantageous price.’
‘Nice of you to think of that,’ Keith said, blandly. He detested Wiley, but he saw no reason to tell him so. ‘Perhaps, later on, Mrs Balfour may be interested. But not at present. She is pretty well done up with all the sorrow and excitement of the past fortnight, and she couldn’t possibly take up the question now.’
‘You know a lot about her.’
Though spoken quietly, the remark had an insolent sound which Ramsay promptly resented.
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I’ve lived here more than a year. I am, of course, well acquainted with her.’
‘Very well,’ and Wiley looked unpleasant. ‘I say, Ramsay, I know quite a lot about you two and if you could manage to let me have some of the books from the library, at a cheerful price, why, I could forget any gossip I may have heard.’
Keith Ramsay reached out his hand and pushed an electric button.
Potter appeared, and Ramsay said, coldly, ‘Show Mr Wiley out, Potter, and should he call again, say to him that you have orders not to admit him.’
‘Oh, pshaw, now, Keith—don’t take a little pleasantry like that! I didn’t mean anything.’
Ramsay had picked up a book and was seemingly absorbed in its pages. He paid no attention to Wiley and with a shrug the visitor turned and went out into the hall.
Potter preceded him and opened the front door. As Wiley went through, he smiled at Potter, and said, ‘Some people can’t take a joke.’
‘No, sir,’ said Potter.
Not long after, Swinton came and asked for Mrs Balfour.
‘Mrs Balfour is not seeing anyone today,’ Potter told him.
‘Then I’ll see Mr Ramsay. Is he in?’
Ramsay was in the library and directed that Swinton be brought to him there.
‘I won’t take a moment of your time,’ the caller said. ‘But I just heard the tragic news and I came up to offer my services, if I can help in any way.’
‘What tragic news?’ Ramsay asked.
‘About Mr Stone’s death. It’s in the evening papers.’
‘Is it? I haven’t seen the papers. I know about it, of course. It’s good of you, Swinton, to call, but Mrs Balfour isn’t seeing anyone. And I don’t think there’s anything to be done here. The funeral will be tomorrow afternoon. Shall you go?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve long admired that man’s genius. Do you think they’ll ever find Mr Balfour’s murderer now?’
‘Why, yes, I think so. Wiley’s just been here. He didn’t seem to have heard about Stone’s death.’
‘Didn’t, eh? You know, Ramsay, between you and me, I’ve always had a feeling that Wiley might have been the murderer.’
‘Good Lord! Why?’
‘Well, for one thing, he hasn’t any real alibi.’
‘Be thankful you have, for they’re suspecting lots of new people. You are sure about that time business of yours, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, yes. That is, I know I was in this house with Mrs Balfour at ten-twenty, and the doctors say that’s the time poor Balfour was killed. But I’ve no need for an alibi. They are for criminals and I’ve heard they are always fakes. Ever found the valuable book?’
‘No. But I think they have a trace of it.’
‘That so? Well, let me put in a word while I can. If it ever turns up let me see it, won’t you? Oh, I don’t mean I want to buy it. I couldn’t afford one page of it. But I’d like a look at it. Well, remember me kindly to Mrs Balfour and after things get more settled, I’ll hope to call on her again with better luck. Mind, now, if I can do anything, let me know.’
So then he went away, and Ramsay sat meditating on the two men that came to see Alli.
Though he could never get anyone interested in the idea, Keith Ramsay had always thought there was a strong chance of one or other of them being the murderer, just because they lived in the same house as the Balfours. But, as he realized, Philip Balfour was not killed in that house, and so his theory had no rational foundation.
Alli did not come down to dinner, so Keith dined alone, lost in a maze of wonder at the moil of strange circumstances in which he found himself.
He tried to avoid looking into the future, for he well knew the police still suspected him of the murders and he had no idea what or when their next move would be.
The evening dragged along and at last Myra brought him a little note from Alli. She wrote she was still suffering the effects of her unpleasant experience and thought it wiser to wait until tomorrow before coming downstairs. But she added some words of affection and Keith Ramsay felt cheered and realized that he should have no sadness now that Alli was safely home again.
The next day the doctor was even more insistent that Mrs Balfour should be kept very quiet. She must not go downstairs at all. She could see Mr Ramsay or any intimate friend in her boudoir. She must not think of going to the funeral of Fleming Stone.
‘You see,’ the doctor said to Mrs Lane, ‘Mrs Balfour is on the verge of a nervous breakdown and a nerve-racking scene like that tragic funeral might bring about her utter prostration.’
‘Also,’ the doctor added, ‘she must not see the police people for some days yet. If they want to question her, it must be done through Mr Ramsay or Myra, or yourself, Mrs Lane. Keep her very quiet, and don’t let her thoughts dwell on the last few days. Send her off on a longish motor ride today, accompanied by Mr Ramsay or some pleasant woman friend.’
These advices were carried out in part. Alli and Keith went for a short drive before luncheon and then Ramsay started for the funeral.
It was held in the private chapel connected with the mortuary company. Not many people were present for Fleming Stone was not of a gregarious nature.
The scene was solemn but not depressing. The lights were dim and as they shone on the white waxy face in the casket, it seemed to take on an ethereal radiance of its own.
A quiet, simple service, and after it was over the audience dispersed.
Andrew Knight, the cousin of Stone, introduced himself to Ramsay, whom he knew from description, and inquired as to Mrs Balfour.
Keith told him what the doctor had said and then the cover was put on the coffin and it was taken away.
Ramsay and Sewell went home together in one of the Balfour cars, but they said little about the outlook.
‘Leave it to simmer a little,’ Sewell advised. ‘Then we can tell better where we are at.’
That very same night, Mr Powers, or the man who called himself Mr Powers, was lying in his comfortable bed in his New York apartment.
He was not sleeping, he had too much on his mind for that.
He was not altogether pleased with the way things had turned out at the house in the Palisades woods. But at any rate Fleming Stone was dead and he had no more to fear from that very inquisitive personage. And nobody could suspect him of any hand in the killing of the detective, for nobody knew the real identity of Mr Powers.
It was some time after midnight when he heard a faint sound. At least, he thou
ght he did—and he sat up in bed, listening. But no one appeared and he heard no further sound so he concluded he was imagining and lay back on his pillows and closed his eyes.
Still sleepless, he moved uneasily and opened his eyes again to see a tall figure standing at the foot of his bed.
His nerves at high tension, he almost shrieked, for it seemed to him what he saw was an apparition, not a human visitor.
The personage was garbed in a long black robe, which threw off luminous glints as it moved, and the quaking man in the bed shivered with fear, for he was terrorized by any hint of the supernatural.
As he watched, he saw the figure wore a black mask, and a queer glitter shone through the eyeholes.
The thing drew nearer, and spoke in a faraway, hollow voice.
‘Murderer!’ was the only word that broke the silence.
But from the folds of the black drapery there came forth a long, bony hand—a skeleton hand, and its bones gave a faint rattle.
The fleshless forefinger pointed directly at him—it came nearer until it almost touched his face, and again came the whispered word—‘Murderer!’
‘Who are you?’ cried the tortured listener. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want you! I am the ghost of the man you killed—I am the spirit of Fleming Stone!’
‘Oh, spare me—leave me! Why are you here?’
‘I am here to get your confession. Until you give me that, I shall haunt you, day and night—all your life!’
Nearer came the menacing shape, and the man in the bed cried out, ‘I’ll give you my confession! I’ll do anything if you’ll only go away!’
‘You confess, then, that you murdered Fleming Stone? That you shot him down in cold blood? Why did you do that?’
‘He knew too much—he would have told—’
‘Told what? Tell it yourself! Confess that you murdered Philip Balfour and Guy Balfour, too.’
‘I—I confess! Go—go—!’
The room was nearly dark, but sufficient light came in from the street to make visible the terrifying figure.
And now, the phantom slowly pulled away the mask it wore, disclosing the face of a grinning skull with deep, empty eye-sockets that yet showed a strange glitter from their depths.
‘I am the man you killed,’ the hollow whisper continued. ‘I am the disembodied spirit of Fleming Stone and I am here now for the book you stole. Give me that, and I will leave you.’
The man moved as if to get up, but sank back in a spasm of fright.
‘Coward!’ was the scornful comment. ‘Stay where you are, craven! Tell me where the book is and I will get it myself.’
‘Then will—will you g-go away?’
‘Yes. Where is the book?’
‘In that French cabinet. In the middle division. Open the door; it isn’t locked.’
The awful shape glided across the room to the escritoire and softly drew open the door of the central compartment.
‘There is nothing here,’ and the low tones were menacing.
‘Yes, yes—feel up against the top—against the roof—’
Draped in the long black sleeve, a hand felt about inside the desk, and hidden from view, felt the book fastened up inside the top of the hiding-place. It was held by strips of paper, which soon gave way under pressure, and feeling certain that it was the right volume, the nocturnal visitor hid it somewhere in the folds of his robe and waved the rattling bones of his skeleton hand. Then he held some further conversation with his frightened victim and faded from sight.
At ten o’clock the next morning, a number of people had arrived at the Balfour apartment, by special invitation.
Inspector Manton and Captain Burnet were in charge of the meeting, and Alli Balfour, seated between Keith Ramsay and John Sewell, seemed to have recovered her usual poise and serenity.
Preston Gill was there, and Wiley and Swinton, who lived in the house, and Henry Scofield, the Balfours’ lawyer—quite a gathering in all.
Pete Wiley had at first refused to come, as he said he had been ordered out of the house, and forbidden to come again. But the police sent him a peremptory order to appear, and so he was among those present.
Inspector Manton began by saying he had at last learned who had killed Mr Philip Balfour and his son, Guy.
He said that the discovery of the criminal’s identity was largely due to the clever detective work of Fleming Stone.
‘And,’ he said, further, ‘I think that since the credit is Mr Stone’s, that gentleman should be given the opportunity to tell about it himself.’
At this point a door opened and Fleming Stone walked calmly into the room.
Had anyone of the audience chosen to look about, he would have seen varying expressions of amazement, consternation and satisfaction on the faces of the group, but everyone was looking at the man who entered and had eyes for no one else.
‘Perhaps,’ Stone said, gravely, ‘some of you are surprised to see me here. Others already knew that my death and funeral were merely pretence. But I discovered that the course I pursued was the only way to outwit the clever and ingenious villain who is responsible for two murders and who planned another. Who is also responsible for the theft of a very valuable book, which I have retrieved and am happy to give it back to its owner.’
Stone handed a small parcel to John Sewell, who eagerly opened it and nodded his head in confirmation of the book’s identity.
‘My work on this case is now finished,’ Stone went on. ‘I am a detective and I discovered the criminal. But I now turn the matter over to our police force, who will take what steps they think best.’
‘I know,’ Manton said, ‘that you are all interested in this case, and that you want to know, first, who is the criminal, and second, how Mr Stone discovered his guilt. In answer to the first question, I order the arrest of Mr Carl Swinton for murder in the first degree and for robbery. If you have anything to say, Mr Swinton, I caution you that it will be taken down in writing and may be used as evidence. Do you wish to say anything?’
‘Not here and not now,’ was the reply, given in a scared and broken voice. ‘You are all wrong, but I must get a lawyer before I undertake to prove my innocence.’
Several policemen appeared, there was considerable fluster and fight but after a short time Swinton was taken away, and, knowing he was safely in custody, Manton turned his attention to Stone.
‘Tell us about it,’ he said; ‘we’re eager for details.’
‘It was a desperate case,’ Fleming Stone replied. ‘I have never known of a more determined and more evil-minded criminal. Nor a more ingenious brain for accomplishing his ends.’
‘When did you first suspect him?’ Manton asked.
‘Not all at once. The conviction grew on me, although I couldn’t imagine how he contrived things. But I think I felt positive when I went to Trentwood, where he used to live, and where the Balfours used to live. Do not be alarmed, Mrs Balfour,’ for Alli’s eyes showed a vague fear; ‘we all know that you were engaged to Mr Swinton when you met Mr Balfour, and that you really threw over one man for the other. But I know, too, that you were about to break off your engagement to Swinton, anyway, and that the wooing of Philip Balfour only hastened it. It is my opinion that Carl Swinton is not entirely normal, but the doctors’ examinations will settle that. I do not feel that he is insane or abnormal enough to explain his crimes that way. But the truth is that when you jilted him, as he expressed it, he declared he would some day get even. And when, later, you found your heart was not entirely devoted to your husband, but was given to Mr Ramsay—forgive me, but plain speaking is necessary to make all clear—when you found this out, he learned it, too, and he vowed to himself that he would make you suffer. He thought it over and concluded that the best way to bring sorrow to you was to get the man you cared for arrested, convicted and executed for a crime he did not commit. This is the true motive for Swinton’s murder of Philip Balfour. He killed Guy, also, because the boy had found out the truth
and was going to denounce him. He looked forward to complete success in his diabolical schemes and then I began to discover enough to make him fear exposure and he began a scheme to murder me. This plan was at the bottom of his renting the house over on the Palisades. It is a good house, but it has stood vacant for years. The last family who lived there included a woman afflicted with dementia praecox, and that explains the barred windows. Swinton rented the place, put in a couple of trusty caretakers, installed the dogs, and when the time was ripe he abducted Mrs Balfour and took her over there. Benson found out about that by his cleverness and perseverance, and of course I followed up his findings, and, as I fully expected, was made a prisoner myself.’
‘A prisoner! In an old-fashioned frame house!’ exclaimed Manton. ‘With your experience and your prowess, it does seem as if you could have broken loose somehow! Couldn’t you call the police? Fire a pistol? Do something to bring help?’
‘Now, now, Inspector, think what you’re saying! The first thing Sam did was to search for concealed weapons. Said Sam is an enormous piece of humanity, capable of twisting me into kindling-wood. I am not a timorous man, but I wouldn’t care to try to get the better of that brute! As to calling anybody, I had no telephone and no means of communicating with the outside world. No, the simple bars and locks of that old house were just as impossible to negotiate as if it had been a medieval castle. And then, too, remember, I went there to get Mrs Balfour. Even if I could have managed my own escape, I could not have carried her off under their noses! I had ample opportunity to think and I concluded some sort of trickery must be attempted.
‘I learned from the man Sam, who was strong in muscle but not in brain, that Mrs Balfour was in the house, and I paid no attention to any plan of escape that did not include her. Of course, when Mr Powers, as Swinton called himself, kidnapped Mrs Balfour, he knew that if I discovered his hiding place I would follow to rescue the lady. And when I did so, I was lured into the barred rooms and the great, old-fashioned key turned upon me. And aside from saving my own life and that of Mrs Balfour, I had to pin the crime on him and produce evidence and proof of his guilt.’
‘I’ll say you were up against it,’ Sewell remarked, sympathetically.
Murder in the Bookshop Page 22
