The Clue (22 page)

XXII

A TALK WITH MISS MORTON

OF COURSE FESSENDEN CONFIDED his wishes to Kitty French. Equally of course, that obliging young woman was desirous of helping him attain them. But neither of them could think of new lines of investigation to pursue.

“We've no clue but that little cachou,” said Miss French, by way of summing up; “and as that's no good at all, we have really nothing that can be called a clue.”

“No,” agreed Rob, “and we have no suspect. Now that Carleton and Miss Dupuy are both out of it, I don't see who could have done it.”

“I never felt fully satisfied about Miss Morton and her burned paper,” said Kitty thoughtfully.

They were walking along a village road while carrying on this conversation, so there was no danger of Miss Morton's overhearing them.

“I've never felt satisfied about that woman, any way,” said Rob. “The oftener I see her the less I like her. She's too smug and complacent. And yet when she was questioned, she went all to pieces.”

“Well, as she flatly contradicted what Marie had said, of course they couldn't keep on questioning her. You can't take a servant's word against a lady's.”

“You ought to, in a serious case like this. I say, Kitty, let's go there now and have a heart-to-heart talk with her.”

Kitty laughed at the idea of a heart-to-heart talk between those two people, but said she was willing to go.

“It mayn't amount to anything,” went on Rob, “and yet, it may. I've asked Mr. Fairbanks to chase up that burned paper matter, but he said there was nothing in it. He didn't hear Marie's story, you see,—he only heard it retold, and he doesn't know how sincere that girl seemed to be when she told about it.”

“Yes, and I saw Miss Morton in Maddy's room, too. I think she ought to tell what she was up to.”

So to the Van Norman house went the two inquisitors, and had Miss Morton known of their fell designs she might not have greeted them as cordially as she did.

Miss Morton had grown fond of Kitty French during the girl's stay with her, and she looked with approval on the fast-growing friendship between her and young Fessenden.

As the hostess at the Van Norman house, too, Miss Morton showed a kindly hospitality, and though she was without doubt eccentric, and sometimes curt of speech, she conducted the household and directed the servants with very little friction or awkwardness.

She was most friendly toward Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton, and the latter often dropped in at the tea hour. Fessenden dropped in at any hour of the day, and of course Mr. Fairbanks came and went as he chose.

Fessenden and Kitty found Miss Morton in the library, and, as they had decided beforehand, went straight to the root of the matter.

“Miss Morton,” Fessenden began, “I want to do a little more questioning on my own account, before Mr. Fleming Stone arrives. I'm sure you won't object to helping me out a bit by answering a few queries.”

“Go ahead,” said Miss Morton grimly, but not unkindly.

“They are a bit personal,” went on Rob, who was at a loss how to begin, now that he was really told to do so.

“Well?”

This time, Miss Morton's tone was more crisp, and Kitty began to see that Rob was on the wrong tack. So she took the helm herself, and said, with a winning smile:

“We want you to tell us frankly what was the paper you burned.”

Something in Miss Morton's expression went to the girl's heart, and she added impulsively:

“I know it wasn't anything that affects the case at all, and if you want to refuse us, you may.”

“I'd rather not tell you,” said Miss Morton, and a far-away look came into her strange eyes; “but since you have shown confidence in me, I prefer to return it.”

She took Kitty's hand in hers, and from the gentle touch the girl was sure that whatever was the nature of the coming confidence, it was not that of a guilty conscience.

“As you know, Kitty,” she began, addressing the girl, though she glanced at Rob occasionally, “many years ago I was betrothed to Richard Van Norman. We foolishly allowed a trifling quarrel to separate us for life. I will not tell you the story of that now,—though I will, some time, if you care to hear it. But we were both quick-tempered, and the letters that passed between us at that time were full of hot, angry, unconsidered words. They were letters such as no human beings ought to have written to each other. Perhaps it was because of their exceeding bitterness, which we read and reread, that we never made up that quarrel, though neither of us ever loved any one else, or ceased to love the other. At the death of Richard Van Norman, two years or more ago, I burned his letters which I had kept so long, and I wrote to Madeleine, asking her to return mine to me if they should be found among her uncle's papers.”

“Dear Miss Morton,” said Kitty, “don't tell any more if it pains you. We withdraw our request, don't we, Rob?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Fessenden heartily; “forgive us, Miss Morton, for what is really an intrusion, and an unwarrantable one.”

“I want to tell you a little more,” Miss Morton resumed, “and afterward I'll tell you why I've told it. Madeleine replied with a most kind letter, saying she had not found the letters, but should she ever do so, she would send them to me. About a year ago, she wrote and asked me to come here to see her. I came, thinking she had found those letters. She had not, but she had found her uncle's diary, which disclosed his feelings toward me, both before and after our quarrel, and she told me then she intended to leave this place to me in her will, because she thought it ought to be mine. Truth to tell, I didn't take much interest in this bequest, for I supposed the girl would long outlive me. But I had really no desire for the house without its master, and though I didn't tell her so, I would rather have had the letters which I hoped she had found, than the news of her bequest.”

“Why did you want the letters so much, Miss Morton?” asked Kitty.

“Because, my dear, they were a disgrace to me. They would be a disgrace to any woman alive. You, my child, with your gentle disposition, can't understand what dreadful cruelty an angry woman can be guilty of on paper. Well, again Madeleine told me she would give me the letters if they ever appeared, and I went home. I didn't hear from her again till shortly before her wedding, when she wrote me that the letters had been found in a secret drawer of Richard's old desk. She invited me to come to her wedding, and said that she would then give me the letters. Of course I came, and that afternoon that I arrived she told me they were in her desk, and she would give them to me next morning. I was more than impatient for them,—I had waited forty years for them,—but I couldn't trouble her on her wedding eve. And then—when—when she went away from us, without having given them into my possession, I was so afraid they would fall into other hands, that I went in search of them. I found them in her desk, I took them to my room and burned them without reading them. And that is the true story of the burned papers. I did look over a memorandum book, thinking it might tell where they were. But right after that I found the letters themselves in the next compartment, and I took them. They were mine.”

The dignified complacency with which Miss Morton uttered that last short sentence commanded the respect of her hearers.

“Indeed, they were yours, Miss Morton,” said Fessenden, “and I'm glad you secured them, before other eyes saw them.”

Kitty said nothing, but held Miss Morton's hand in a firm, gentle pressure that seemed to seal their friendship.

“But,” said Fessenden, a little diffidently, “why didn't you tell all this at the inquest as frankly as you have told us?”

Miss Morton paled, and then grew red.

“I am an idiot about such things,” she said. “When questioned publicly, like that, I am so embarrassed and also so fearful that I scarcely know what I say. I try to hide this by a curt manner and a bravado of speech, with the result that I get desperate and say anything that comes into my head, whether it's the truth or not. I not only told untruths, but I contradicted myself, when witnessing, but I couldn't seem to help it. I lost control of my reasoning powers, and finally I felt my only safety was in denying it all. For—and this was my greatest fear—I thought they might suspect that I killed Madeleine, if they knew I
did
burn the papers. Afterward, I would have confessed that I had testified wrongly, but I couldn't see how it would do any good.”

“No,” said Rob slowly, “except to exonerate Marie of falsehood.”

Miss Morton set her lips together tightly, and seemed unwilling to pursue that subject.

“And now,” she said, “the reason I've told you two young people this, is because I want to warn you not to let a quarrel or a foolish misunderstanding of any sort come between you to spoil the happiness that I see is in store for you.”

“Good for you! Miss Morton!” cried Rob. “You're a brick! You've precipitated matters a little; Kitty and I haven't put it into words as yet, but—we accept these preliminary congratulations,—don't we, dear?”

And foolish little Kitty only smiled, and buried her face on Miss Morton's shoulder instead of the young man's!

And so, Miss Morton's name was erased from Rob's list of people to be inquired of, and, as he acknowledged to himself, he was quite ready now to turn over his share in the case to Fleming Stone.

And, too, since Miss Morton had given a gentle push to the rolling stone of his affair with Kitty, it rolled faster, and the two young people had their heart-to-heart talks with each other, instead of adding a third to the interview.

But there was just one more unfinished duty that Fessenden determined to attend to. Carleton had assured him that he was at liberty to talk to Dorothy Burt, if he chose, and Rob couldn't help thinking that he ought to get all possible light on the case before Mr. Stone came; for he proposed to assist that gentleman greatly by his carefully tabulated statements, and his cross-referenced columns of evidence.

So, unaccompanied by Kitty, who was apt to prove a disturbing influence on his concentration of mind, he interviewed Miss Burt.

It was not difficult to get an opportunity, as she rarely left the house, and Mrs. Carleton was not exigent in her demands on her companion's time.

So the two strolled in the rose-garden late one afternoon, and Rob asked Miss Burt to tell him why she hesitated so when on the witness stand, and why she looked at Carleton with such unmistakable glances of inquiry, which he as certainly answered. Dorothy Burt replied to the questions as frankly as they were put.

“To explain it to you, Mr. Fessenden,” she said, “I must first tell you that I loved Mr. Carleton even while Miss Van Norman was his affianced bride. I tell you this simply, both because it is the simple truth and because Mr. Carleton advised me to tell you, if you should ask me. And, knowing this, you may be surprised to learn that when I heard of Miss Van Norman's death, I—” she raised her wonderful eyes and looked straight at Rob—“I thought she died by Schuyler's hand. Yes, you may well look at me in surprise,—I know it was dreadful of me to think he
could
have done it, but—I did think so. You see, I loved him,—and I
knew
he loved me. He had never told me so, had never breathed a word that was disloyal to Miss Van Norman,—and yet I
knew
.
And that last evening in this very rose-garden, on the night before his wedding, we walked here together, and I knew from what he didn't say, not from what he did say, that it was I whom he loved, and not she. He left me with a few cold, curt words that I knew only too well masked his real feelings, and I saw him no more that night. He
had
told me he was going over to Miss Van Norman's, and so, when I heard of the—the tragedy—I couldn't help thinking he had yielded to a sudden terrible impulse. Oh, I'm not defending myself for my wrong thought of him; I'm only confessing that I did think that.”

“And how did you learn that you were mistaken,” said Rob gently, “and that Schuyler didn't do it?”

“Why, the very next night he told me he loved me,” said the girl, her face alight with a tender glory, “and then I
knew
!”

“And your embarrassment at the questions on the witness stand?”

“Was only because I knew suspicion was directed toward him, and I feared I might say something to strengthen it, even while trying to do the opposite.”

“And you didn't care whether you told the truth or not?”

“If the truth would help to incriminate Schuyler, I would prefer not to tell it.”

The gentle sadness in Dorothy's tone robbed this speech of the jarring note it would otherwise have held.

“You are right, Miss Burt,” said Rob, “and I thank you for the frank confidence you have shown in talking to me as freely as you have done.”

“Schuyler told me to,” said the girl simply.

XXIII

FLEMING STONE

WHEN FESSENDEN TOLD KITTY of his interview with Dorothy Burt, she agreed that he had now followed every trail that had presented itself, or had been suggested by anybody.

Mr. Fairbanks, too, admitted that he was at his wits' end, and saw no hope of a solution of the mystery except through the services of Fleming Stone. And so when the great detective arrived, both Fairbanks and Fessenden were ready to do anything they could to help him, but had no suggestions to make.

With her ever-ready hospitality, Miss Morton invited Mr. Stone to make his home at the Van Norman house, and, as this quite coincided with his own wishes, Stone took up his quarters there.

The first evening of his arrival he listened to the details of the case.

Fleming Stone was of a most attractive personality. He was nearly fifty years old, with graying hair and a kindly, responsive face.

At dinner he had won the admiration of all by his tact and interesting conversation. At the table the business upon which he had come had not been mentioned, but now the group assembled in the library felt that the time had come to talk of the matter.

It was a strangely-assorted household. Tom Willard, though the only relative of the Van Normans present, was in no way the head of the house. That position was held by Miss Morton, who, though kind-hearted and hospitable, never let it be forgotten that she was owner and mistress of the mansion.

Kitty French was an honored guest, and as Miss Morton had invited her to stay as long as she would, she had determined now to stay through Mr. Stone's sojourn there, after which, whatever the results of his work, she would go back to her home in New York.

Fessenden and Schuyler Carleton had been with them at dinner, and Mr. Benson and Mr. Fairbanks had come later, and now the group waited only on Mr. Stone's pleasure to begin the recital of the case.

When Fleming Stone, then, asked Coroner Benson to give him the main facts, it seemed as if the great detective's work was really about to begin.

“Would you rather see Mr. Benson alone?” asked Schuyler Carleton, actuated, doubtless, by his own shrinking from any publicity.

“Not at all,” said Stone briefly. “I prefer that you all should feel free to speak whenever you wish.”

Then Mr. Benson set forth in a concise way and in chronological order the facts as far as they were known, the suspicions that had been entertained and given up; and deplored the entire lack of clue or evidence that might lead to investigation in any definite direction.

The others, as Mr. Stone had suggested, made remarks when they chose, and the whole conversation was of an informal and colloquial nature. It seemed dominated by Fleming Stone's mind. He drew opinions from one or another, until before they realized it every one present had taken part in the recital. And to each Fleming Stone listened with deference and courtesy. The coroner's legal phrases, Fessenden's impetuous suggestions, Tom's blunt remarks, Carleton's half-timid utterances, Kitty's volatile sallies, and even Miss Morton's futile observations, all were listened to and responded to by Fleming Stone with an air of deep interest and consideration.

As the hour grew late Mr. Stone said that he felt thoroughly acquainted with the facts of the case so far as they could be told to him. He said he could express no opinion nor offer any suggestion that night, but that he hoped to come to some conclusions on the following day; and if they would all meet him in the same place the next evening, he would willingly disclose whatever he might have learned or discovered in the meantime. This put an end to the conversation, and Mr. Benson and Mr. Fairbanks went home. The ladies went to their rooms, and Carleton, Fessenden and Willard sat up for an hour's smoke with Fleming Stone, who entertained them with talk on subjects far removed from murder or sudden death.

The next morning Fleming Stone expressed a desire to be shown all the rooms in the house.

“In a case like this,” he said, “with no definite clues to follow, the only thing to do is to examine the premises in hope of happening upon something suggestive.”

Kitty was eager to be Mr. Stone's guide, and easily obtained Miss Morton's permission to go into all the rooms of the old mansion.

Fessenden went with them, and though the tour of the sleeping-rooms was quickly made, it was evident that the quick eye of the detective took in every detail that was visible. He stayed longer in Madeleine's sitting-room, but, though he picked up a few papers from her desk and glanced at them, he showed no special interest in the room.

Downstairs they went then, and found Mr. Fairbanks in the library, awaiting them. He brought no news or fresh evidence, and had merely called in hope of seeing Mr. Stone.

The great detective was most frank and kindly toward his lesser colleague, and made him welcome with a genial courtesy.

“I'm going to make a thorough examination of these lower rooms,” said Fleming Stone, “and I should be glad of the assistance of you two younger men. My eyes are not what they once were.”

Mr. Fairbanks and Rob well knew that this statement was merely an idle compliment to themselves; for the eyes of Fleming Stone had never yet missed a clue, however obscurely hidden.

But Kitty, ignorant of the principles of professional etiquette, really thought that Fleming Stone was depending on his two companions for assistance.

Tom Willard had gone out, and Miss Morton was looking after her all-important housekeeping, so the three men and Kitty French were alone in the library.

In his quick, quiet way Fleming Stone went rapidly round the room. He examined the window fixtures and curtains, the mantel and fireplace, the furniture and carpet, and came to a standstill by the library table. The dagger, which was kept in a drawer of the table, was shown to him, but though he examined it a moment, it seemed to have little interest for him.

“There's not a clue in this room,” he said almost indignantly. “There probably were several the morning after the murder, but the thorough sweepings and dustings since have obliterated every trace.”

Somewhat abruptly he went into the large hall. Here his proceedings in the library were duplicated. “Nothing at all,” he said; “but what could be expected in a room which is a general thoroughfare?”

Then he went into the drawing-room. The other three followed, feeling rather depressed at the hopeless outlook, and a little disappointed in the great detective.

Stone glanced around the large apartment.

“Swept, scrubbed, and polished,” he declared, as he glanced with disfavor at the immaculate room.

“And indeed it was quite necessary,” said Miss Morton, who entered just then. “After all those vines and flowers were taken away, and as a good deal of the furniture was out, I took occasion for a good bit of house-cleaning.”

“Well,” said Fleming Stone quietly, “there's one clue they didn't sweep away. Here is where the assassin entered.”

As he spoke Mr. Stone was leaning against the mantel and looking down at the immaculately brushed hearth.

“Where?” cried Kitty, darting forward, and though the others gave no voice to their curiosity, they waited breathlessly for Stone's next utterance.

The hearth and the whole fireplace were tiled, and in the floor tiling, under the andirons, was a rectangular iron plate with an oval opening closed by an iron cover. This cover was hinged, and could be raised and thrown back to permit ashes to be swept into the chute. The iron plate was sunk flush with the hearth and cemented into the brick-work, and the cover fitted into the rim so closely that scarce a seam showed.

“He came up through this hole in the fireplace,” said Stone, almost as if talking to himself, “very soon after Miss Dupuy went upstairs at half-past ten. Before Mr. Carleton arrived at quarter after eleven, the murderer had finished his work, and had departed by this same means.”

While the others stood seemingly struck dumb by this revelation, Kitty excitedly flew to the fireplace and tried to raise the iron lid, but the andirons were in the way. Rob set them aside for her, while Stone said quietly, “Those andirons were probably not there that night?”

“No,” exclaimed Kitty; “they had been taken away, because we expected to fill the fireplace with flowers the next day.”

“But how could anybody get in the cellar?” asked Miss Morton, looking bewildered.

“The cellar is never carefully locked,” said Fleming Stone. “I came downstairs early this morning, and before breakfast Harris had shown me all through the cellar. He admits that several windows are always left open for the sake of ventilation, and claims that the carefully locked door in the hall at the head of the cellar stairs precludes all danger from that direction.”

“But I don't understand,” said Mr. Fairbanks perplexedly. “If that opening is an ash-chute, such as I have in my own house, it is all bricked up down below, with the exception of a small opening for the removal of the ashes, and it would be quite impossible for any one to climb up through it.”

“But this one isn't bricked up,” said Fleming Stone. “It was originally intended to be enclosed; but it seems this fireplace is rarely used. Harris tells me that the late Mr. Van Norman used to talk about having the chute completed, and having a fire here more often. But the library wood fire was more attractive as a family gathering place, and this formal room was used only on state occasions. However, as you see,” and Mr. Stone raised the iron lid again, “this opens directly into the cellar, and, I repeat, formed the means of entrance for the murderer of Madeleine Van Norman.”

Fleming Stone's voice and manner were far from triumphant or jubilant at his discovery. He seemed rather to state the fact with regret, but as if it must be told.

Mr. Fairbanks looked amazed and thoughtful, but Rob Fessenden was frankly incredulous.

“Mr. Stone,” he said respectfully, “I am sure you know what you're talking about, but will you tell me how a man could get up through that hole? It doesn't seem to me that a small-sized boy could squeeze through.”

Fleming Stone took a silver-cased tape-measure from his pocket, and handed it to Rob without a word.

Eagerly stooping on the hearth, Rob measured the oval opening in the iron plate. Although the rectangular plate was several inches larger each way, the oval opening measured exactly nine and one-half inches by thirteen and one-half inches.

“Who could get through that?” he inquired, as he announced the figures. “I'm sure I couldn't.”

“And Schuyler Carleton is a larger man than you are,” observed Mr. Fairbanks.

“That lets Tom Willard out, too,” said Rob, with a slight smile; “for he's nearly six feet tall, and weighs more than two hundred pounds.”

“The only man I know of,” said Mr. Fairbanks thoughtfully, “who could come up through that hole is Slim Jim.”

“Who is Slim Jim?” cried Rob quickly. “Go for him; he is the man!”

“Not so fast,” said Mr. Fairbanks. “Slim Jim is a noted burglar and a suspected murderer, but he is safely in prison at present and has been for some months.”

“But he may have escaped,” exclaimed Rob. “Are you sure he hasn't?”

“I haven't heard anything about him of late; but if he is or has been away from the prison, it can be easily found out.”

“Isn't it unlikely,” said Fleming Stone quietly, “that a noted burglar should enter a house and commit murder, without making any attempt to steal?”

“He may have been frightened away by the sound of Schuyler's latch-key,” suggested Rob, and Kitty looked at him with pride, in his ingenuity, and thought how much cleverer he was, after all, than the celebrated Fleming Stone.

Fessenden urged Mr. Fairbanks to go at once and look up the whereabouts of Slim Jim, and the detective was strongly inclined to go.

“Go, by all means, if you choose,” said Fleming Stone pleasantly. “There's really nothing further to do here in the way of examination of the premises. I do not mind saying that my own suspicions are not directed toward Slim Jim, but my own suspicions are by no means an infallible guide. I will ask you, though, gentlemen, not to say anything about this ash-chute matter to-day. I consider it is my right to request this. Of course you can find out all about Slim Jim without stating how he entered the house.”

The two men promised not to say anything about the ash-chute to anybody, and hot upon the trail of the suspected burglar they went away.

Miss Morton excused herself, and upon Kitty French fell the burden of entertaining Mr. Stone. Nor was this young woman dismayed at the task.

Though not loquacious, the detective was an easy and pleasant talker, and he seemed quite ready to converse with the girl as if he had no other occupation on hand.

“How wonderful you are!” said Kitty, clasping her hands beneath her chin as she looked at the great man. “To think of your spotting that fireplace thing right away! Though of course I never should have thought of anybody squeezing up through there. And Rob and I spent a whole morning searching these rooms for clues, and that was only the day after it happened.”

“What an opportunity!” Stone seemed interested. “And didn't you find anything—not
anything
?”

“No, not a thing. We were so disappointed. Oh, yes, Rob did find one little thing, but it was so little and so silly that I guess he forgot all about it.”

“What was it?”

“Why, I've almost forgotten the name. Oh, yes, Rob said it was a cachou—a little silver thing, you know, like a tiny pill. Rob says some men eat them after they've been smoking. But he asked all the men that ever came here, and they all said they didn't use them. Maybe the burglar dropped it.”

“Maybe he did. Where did you find it?”

“Rob found it. It was right in that corner by the mantel, just near the fireplace.”

Fleming Stone stood up. “Miss French,” said he, “if it is any satisfaction to you, you may know that you have helped me a great deal in my work. Will you excuse me now, as I find I have important business elsewhere?”