One of the policemen left immediately to report to the commissariat and to bring the coroner. The manservant lavished care on his mistress and succeeded in bringing her back to consciousness. The maid also came around and told what she knew about the mysterious man who had passed in front of her.
Mrs. Howard was overcome. She could not have shown more sorrow if she had just learned of the murder of her own son. Fortunately for her, a flood of tears brought some relief to her deep sorrow.
The coroner arrived, bringing Mr. Carras, the neighborhood Commissioner. He verified that the victim had been killed by a knife wound delivered with great violence. The criminal must have taken advantage of the fact that the victim was playing the violin to slip up behind him.
The crime wasn’t motivated by theft, because neither the victim’s gold watch nor his wallet had been taken.
Mrs. Howard brushed aside revenge as a motive. She affirmed that Mr. Eryson led a very quiet life and visited friends, who were above suspicion, infrequently. The young artist couldn’t have had any enemies, because he was very modest and had a retiring character; he had never had a quarrel.
But then, who could this mysterious character be who had so violently opened the door and fled? The murderer, surely. The information the maid gave about him, however, was too vague to be used as a basis for any investigation.
Carras, confirming that it was a strange and very confused case, decided to be safe and get the assistance of a very experienced detective. At daybreak he took a cab and had himself taken to 77 Garden Street, to the home of the famous Ethel King. He wanted to interest the young woman in the case.
The detective, who was not overburdened with work, agreed immediately to the Commissioner’s request. She was even more interested in that murder because she knew the young virtuoso personally and had heard him with delight several times in concerts. She felt the most ardent desire to arrest the scoundrel who was so hardened as to cut short the days of such an artist.
It was 7 a.m. when, with Carras, she got on the way to the house of the widow Howard. Newspaper hawkers were already selling special editions in which they announced to the citizens of Philadelphia the tragic end of the famous violinist, John Eryson.
Ethel King at the Scene of the Crime
Mrs. Howard was somewhat in control of herself. She greeted the great detective whom she knew by reputation, and exchanged a cordial handshake with her.
Ah! Miss King,” she exclaimed. “You’ll find this scoundrel, won’t you? Poor Eryson, so cowardly assassinated, must be avenged.”
“Most certainly,” replied the detective. “I’m determined to do it. I have often heard, with enthusiasm, John Eryson’s admirable playing. It was a genius that we have just lost. The villain who had the heart to murder such a man while he was playing the violin must be a brute, inaccessible to any human feeling.”
She had the events of the night told to her once more and interrogated the maid with particular care.
“So, the only thing you noticed was that the stranger was wearing a black overcoat, a black hat, and had wrapped a piece of black cloth over his face?”
“Yes, I didn’t see the rest but for a second,” the maid answered. “Then I dropped the lamp. I heard the unknown man’s footsteps again on the stairs, and I fainted.”
“How tall was the stranger? Was he tall or stocky?”
“He seemed to me to be very tall; he was at least a head taller than I am.”
Ethel King could get nothing more out of the young girl. She went up to the victim’s bedroom to go ahead with the investigation. The body was no longer there. The coroner had had it picked up and transported to the morgue in the cemetery. She first examined the floor, then turned all her attention to the furniture. She finally remarked, addressing the Commissioner:
“This is unusual. Despite what Mrs. Howard said, everything seems to prove that it was a matter of revenge.”
“I agree with you,” Carras stated. “Also, the crime may have been committed out of spite or envy.”
“You mean to say that someone was jealous of John Eryson’s talent?”
“Yes, but there’s more. Yesterday the violinist received the news that he had been named Director of the Harrisburg Conservatory. The young man was delighted, Mrs. Howard told me.”
The widow confirmed that statement.
“We stayed very late at the table yesterday evening. We had supper with a friend of Mr. Eryson. A sad feeling was mingled with my joy. The thought of being soon separated from my lodger, that I loved like a son, was painful to me.”
“Who was that friend you dined with?”
“A young pianist, Mr. Holm Berger.”
“Ah! I’m acquainted with him. He has a good reputation. He’s surely not the guilty person.”
“No, certainly not. His joy was sincere when he learned about John’s appointment,” the widow said.
“We’re definitely faced with an enigma!” Carras said with vexation. “I don’t at all see how we can pick up the trail of the criminal. Besides, duty calls me back to my office. Are you staying here, Miss King?”
“Yes, I haven’t finished my investigation.”
“Good. I wish you good luck. I have no great hope that we’ll succeed in catching the murderer.”
Ethel King shrugged.
“I can’t yet confirm anything either, naturally, but this affair isn’t any more obscure than a great number of others turned over to me and that I solved.”
The Commissioner left. Ethel King was alone with Mrs. Howard in the violinist’s bedroom. She sat down at the secretary and opened the long drawer. It contained musical notebooks thrown in pell-mell. The detective gave Mrs. Howard a questioning look.
“Was there always such disorder in this drawer?” she asked.
The old lady shook her head.
“I couldn’t tell you. It’s been months since I looked in it. Mr. Eryson usually kept it locked. But I can’t imagine that he conserved his manuscripts and compositions with so little care. My lodger was very orderly. Why would he have given up his habits in this way?”
Ethel thoughtfully considered the sheets covered with musical notations.
“It looks as if someone rummaged around hastily in these papers,” she said.
She began to examine the contents of the drawer and finally noticed a notebook bearing the inscription: LIST OF MY COMPOSITIONS. She opened it and found inside the titles of John Eryson’s musical compositions. A great number of the pieces had already been published and very well received by the public. But the last titles were those of works still unpublished.
“Had Mr. Eryson composed lately?”
“Yes, he told me yesterday that he had finished two new pieces, a serenade in E Flat Major and a Spanish dance that he called Normida.”
“Did he play that dance for you?”
“No, nor the serenade in E Flat. He wanted to give these two pieces in a concert next week, and I was to hear them then for the first time. He took a certain pride in having me hear his works in a concert, in front of the public that was to judge them.”
“I understand. You see, moreover, that the titles of his pieces are set down here.”
Ethel King pointed to the page in the notebook, the next to last line and the one preceding it. Written there was: Normida, Spanish dance and Serenade in E Flat Major. The last composition was a ballad in B Flat Major.
Ethel King was thinking, her gaze lost in the distance. A thought suddenly came to mind. She leafed through the notebooks spread out in the drawer. A strange fact! She found all the compositions listed in the notebook except the last ones. After having rummaged through all the corners of the secretary, she let out a soft whistle. Mrs. Howard, intrigued, approached and asked:
“Have you found something?”
“Perhaps,” Ethel King replied. “I can’t yet talk about this subject, but I’ve made an interesting discovery. You told me that Mr. Eryson was named Director of the Conservatory in Harrisburg
?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I now suspect the true motives for this abominable murder. If my conjectures are right, the murderer won’t enjoy his liberty much longer, I guarantee you, Mrs. Howard.”
Ethel King put the notebook in her pocket, closed the drawer, and kept the key.
“My investigation is complete, for the moment at least,” she said. “I’ll leave you, Mrs. Howard, asking you not to reveal, until you’ve been told otherwise, that I am in charge of this case.”
“That’s understood. I’ll be discreet.”
On leaving the villa, Ethel King went first to a photographer with whom she had a long interview. At the end of that conversation, he accompanied her to the cemetery morgue. The unfortunate violinist was lying in a coffin. They had closed his eyelids, but they had come open again and showed his glassy pupils. The photographer took some shots of the livid and bleeding head. Leaving him, Ethel King said:
“Don’t forget what I told. I want the photographs shot so that they can be enlarged with an electronic projector.”
“You’ll be satisfied, Miss King. I’ll even try to get the color of the face, and most of all the blood stains.”
“Perfect. If that succeeds, it couldn’t be better!”
The photographer looked at the detective with curiosity.
“This photograph must undoubtedly be used to unmask the murderer?” he questioned.
“Perhaps. Most of all, don’t forget that you’ve promised me secrecy.”
“That goes without saying! No one will hear about it. But when the scoundrel is caught, will you allow me to talk?”
Ethel King smiled. “As much as you like. Then you can tell everybody that you participated in capturing a criminal.”
The young woman went back home where she brought her aide, Charley Lux, up to date on the situation, and told him about her suspicions. The same day she left with the young man for Harrisburg, where they arrived in the morning.
She had spoken about her trip to no one. Commissioner Carras, himself, had not been told. Thus, when he went the next morning to Mrs. Howard’s and learned that Ethel King had not reappeared since her visit of the night before, he supposed that the detective herself judged the case unsolvable and was not taking any trouble to pick up the murderer’s trail.
James Rinehart
On arriving in Harrisburg, Ethel King and her aide registered in a hotel, where they spent the night. The next morning she went to the music conservatory. A sad feeling crept into Ethel King’s heart as she stood in front of the majestic edifice from which so many artists had already graduated. She was thinking of poor John Eryson. The violinist had dreamed of becoming Director of that establishment. He could have exercised his talents and his capabilities in a worthy manner there, but he had been snatched violently from life.
“No, I won’t stop until I lay my hands on the author of this hideous crime,” the young woman murmured.
She asked her cousin to wait outside and she passed through the main door.
“May I help you?” the concierge asked.
“Yes. Who is the temporary Director of the Conservatory?”
“That’s Mr. Edgins, until the new Director arrives.”
“Did you know that Mr. John Eryson, who was named to this high position, has just been murdered in Philadelphia?”
“Yes, Miss. We have already been informed by the newspapers. The news has even produced considerable excitement here.”
“And this Mr. Edgins is probably the eventual successor?”
“Mr. Edgins is already old. He had intended to retire as soon as the new Director took up his duties.”
“Is Mr. Edgins here at the moment?”
“Yes. In the Director’s office.”
“Please tell him that a lady has an urgent need to speak to him.”
“What name should I…”
“I’ll tell Mr. Edgins who I am myself.”
The concierge went to do as he was asked, and came back several minutes later to take Ethel King to the Director’s office. The detective saw herself in the presence of a venerable man who rose, very intrigued, to greet her.
“To whom do I have the honor…,” he asked politely.
“I’m Ethel King from Philadelphia.”
“Ah! Very interesting! The famous detective.”
“I do, in fact, exercise the profession of detective.”
“You’ve come, no doubt, about the murder of poor John Eryson?”
“You’re right.”
“What a horrible thing! I hope with all my heart that you succeed in bringing the author of this abominable crime to justice.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t furnish you with the least clue. I didn’t know Mr. Eryson very well, although I had occasion several times to admire his talent. He would have been an ideal Director for me, because he was not only a great artist, but also an energetic man with excellent intentions. I supported his candidacy very warmly. What a loss for humanity!”
Ethel King was seated facing the old man.
“I would like to talk to you precisely about the committee meeting in which Eryson was named Director of the Conservatory.”
“I must hasten to tell you that our committee meeting should remain secret. No one needs to be informed about it.”
“I will keep silent. Don’t worry. Don’t tell anyone that Ethel King is in Harrisburg.”
“It will be as you wish.”
“Something tells me I’ll find John Eryson’s murderer here.”
“That would be amazing. My God! Who could it be? Nothing proves that it isn’t someone we know very well.”
“Indeed. That’s not impossible. But let’s get to the question,” Ethel King said. “When the position of Director was vacant, a great number of artists must have applied?”
“Oh, yes! There were some 30 candidates.”
“And how many of the candidates did you consider?”
“My word, we took only two into consideration.”
“Which ones?” Ethel King asked.
“Those of John Eryson and James Rinehart.”
“Who is James Rinehart?”
“A music professor, rich and rather well known, who has a villa on the outskirts of Harrisburg.”
“Why wasn’t he chosen?”
“His talent can’t be compared with that of John Eryson. He’s a good musician, intelligent, who has a great deal of accomplishment, but who is not a virtuoso, a genius like the other man. That’s why we elected John Eryson. We told ourselves that such a name, already famous in the United States, would contribute enormously to the reputation of our institution.”
“You did the right thing. Can you tell me a little more about Mr. Rinehart?” Ethel King asked.
Edgins looked at her with astonishment.
“Why? What reason makes you take so much interest in this Rinehart?”
The young woman smiled.
“Inform me, Mr. Edgins. I may be in a position to explain to you the motives of my conduct tomorrow.”
Edgins showed a certain nervousness.
“Rinehart teaches in our establishment,” he stated. “If he were under suspicion…that would be terrible!”
“You don’t yet have any reason to be worried on this point. How old is Mr. Rinehart?”
“He’s about 40 years old.”
“Is he attractive?”
“He’s a man much above the usual in height, with black curly hair, and he wears a full beard.”
“You say he’s rich?”
“Yes, very rich. He lives in a villa very near here. He gives evening gatherings from time to time. For example, he has sent out invitations for tomorrow. I’ll be at the party because we’ve been promised something interesting.”
“May I ask what it’s about?”
“But of course! Rinehart has tried several times to become known as a composer, but he’s never achieved any serious success. Now, he’s promis
ed to play some new works that merit, he claims, the attention of connoisseurs. This is the first time he’s shown himself so satisfied with his productions.”
The detective had listened with the greatest attention.
“Has Rinehart told you the titles of his new compositions?”
“No, he hasn’t as yet spoken about them.”
“What sort of reputation does Mr. Rinehart have in Harrisburg?”
“It isn’t bad. He’s considered a competent teacher and he has a lot of students,” Edgins answered. “What’s more, he leads a quiet existence and passes for an eccentric. It’s claimed that he goes away secretly to other villas and participates in expensive orgies, but that gossip is without foundation.”
“Mr. Rinehart isn’t married?”
“No.”
“He probably has a large number of servants?”
“To my knowledge, a manservant, a housekeeper, a maid, a cook and a gardener.”
“Can you tell me exactly where his house is located?”
“You have only to follow the main road to the west; you’ll soon reach his villa. It’s situated very near a kind of chalky cliff and it’s surrounded by a magnificent park. It’s a very pretty property.”
“I’ll go see Mr. Rinehart.”
“Whenever you like. But Miss King, I would really like to know why you’re so interested in him. You don’t have any suspicions about him, do you?”
“I can’t tell you anything about that subject, Mr. Edgins. Don’t forget that you must not speak to anyone about my visit here. You’ll probably meet me again tomorrow at Mr. Rinehart’s party. I’ll be introduced to you under another name as a student of the professor. Don’t let it appear at that time that you know me. I’m a stranger to you.”
“All right, all right, it’s understood; you’ll be satisfied, Miss King. I’m truly curious to know where you’re going with this. I have a feeling something sensational is going to happen, although, in my opinion, Rinehart has nothing to do with it.”
“That’s possible. One more question: Who will now be appointed Director of the Conservatory?”
The Adventures of Ethel King, the Female Nick Carter Page 23
