Naturally, Mr. Trenton was eager to know what we had accomplished and bombarded me with questions the moment I stepped foot in my apartments, which was not until late, for I had stopped at the office to attend to some pressing business first. I put him off, however, by saying that McKelvie was just getting his bearings and we'd have definite news when I heard from him again. I expected that he would call me up next day, but I received no word from him, so that I had plenty of time to speculate on the little I knew.
Personally, I was not sorry that Philip Darwin had failed, because I did not relish the idea of Ruth's inheriting his money, but I could not understand why McKelvie had disparaged Cunningham's motive in giving us this information. Not that I wanted to side with the man. I felt the same unreasonable antagonism that McKelvie evidently experienced toward him, but I wanted to be fair, and as far as I could see he was desirous of helping us as much as he could.
At any rate, motives for the crime, as far as Ruth was concerned, were valueless, since we knew of the existence of the secret entrance. What troubled me most was this point. Why should any sane man (I presume that the criminal was sane, if criminality is not another form of insanity) I repeat, why should any sane man shoot another one in the dark in the presence of a third person with the chances ten to one against his hitting the one at whom he aimed, and ten to one in favor of his being discovered? It was absurd on the face of it, yet it was just what had happened in the study that night, and twist it as I would I could make neither rhyme nor reason out of it. McKelvie had said the criminal was a clever man and clever criminals don't usually leave anything to chance, for only chance could have directed his aim in a room so dark that he could not possibly see his prospective victim!
Though I thought about it continually, this point was still a puzzle when McKelvie phoned me, early the second day after our visit to Riverside Drive, and asked me to meet him there at ten o'clock, but to tell no one where I was going. As I was in the habit of leaving for the office about eight I said nothing of my ultimate destination to Mr. Trenton, but I ordered Jenkins to be at the office as near nine-thirty as possible. I did not know whether McKelvie wanted him or not, and it was simpler to dismiss him than to send for him.
When we entered Darwin's study at ten o'clock sharp McKelvie was standing at one of the windows whistling. He greeted us with a smile and the remark, "Well, I'm all ready to tell you how the murder was committed."
"You have discovered something new?" I asked quickly.
"One or two things, but nothing bearing on my statement. I knew before I entered this room day before yesterday how it was done. For another that might seem impossible, but for me, no. It was simplicity itself."
I couldn't help smiling at this piece of conceit and catching my look he laughed good-humoredly.
"All great detectives—and I am one, according to my friend, Cunningham—are egotistical," he said.
"Is that the reason that Sherlock Holmes is an egotist, sir?" asked Jenkins suddenly.
"Undoubtedly; and why not, since he is the greatest of his kind. You see great detectives seldom fail, and so naturally they become—well—self-opinionated," returned McKelvie.
But I had not come there to discuss the failings of detectives, great or small, so I proceeded to dismount him from his hobby.
"You said you knew how the murder was done. So does anyone who reads the papers. The coroner's inquest made that fact plain," I said to get him started. I had learned already that he disliked having his statements belittled.
"The coroner's inquest!" he scoffed. "Haven't you the wit to see that the inquest was in the hands of the police from the start? Jones questioned Orton in the morning and then calmly used Graves and his jury as a vehicle for tightening the net in which Mrs. Darwin had become entangled. What chance then had the truth for even so much as lifting its head? I suppose the police explained to your satisfaction how the murderer shot so accurately in the dark?" he ended, cynically.
I smiled inwardly as I realized that I had drawn the very fire I wanted. Now I would have the answer to my puzzle.
"Well, how did he do it?" I asked, unruffled.
"He didn't. He shot Darwin while the lamp was lighted, like any right-minded person," he answered triumphantly. "By the way, Jenkins, I don't believe I'll need you to-day."
"Very well, sir."
I waited until Jenkins had gone and then I replied to McKelvie's statement. "What you have just remarked is utterly impossible," I retorted. "Ruth heard the shot before she saw the lamp spring into being, and she was speaking the truth."
He laughed. "Certainly, I am not disputing that point. I am merely making the assertion that the murderer shot his victim while the lamp, and for all I know, all the lights were lighted."
"But——"
"On second thoughts I don't believe I'll tell you. You might be as skeptical of my information as you were triumphant just now at having roused my ire," he answered laconically, and I knew that I had not deceived him long with my pretense of blockheadedness.
"I promise to believe anything you may say and swallow it all, hook, line and sinker," I pleaded.
"Well, perhaps under those circumstances—" he appeared to reflect, then said abruptly, "Would you call Dr. Haskins a man who knew his business?"
"Yes, decidedly so," I replied, surprised at the turn in the conversation.
"He remarked, if you remember, that Philip Darwin lived twenty minutes after the bullet had penetrated his lung, and yet he also agreed with the coroner's physician that Philip Darwin died at midnight or shortly thereafter. You yourself can testify that the shot was fired at midnight. How then do you account for the discrepancies in these various facts, for facts they are?"
My mind reverted to the inquest, and I heard again the pompous coroner's physician explaining Dr. Haskins' mistake, and I also recalled the young doctor's face, which certainly belied his apparent acquiescence with the other's statement. And suddenly I saw what McKelvie was driving at. Yet, how could it possibly be?
"You mean that he had already been shot when Ruth entered this room?" I said slowly, hardly daring to believe that which I uttered. It was so incredible, so seemingly impossible!
"Yes, just that." The words came with quiet conviction.
"But I heard no other shot, and Philip Darwin was alive at eleven-thirty!"
"Of course you heard no shot. We're dealing with a clever man, I tell you, and he wasn't advertising his actions," returned McKelvie, with that note of impatience in his voice which crept into it whenever I failed immediately to grasp the point. "I'll show you how it was done, so that no one could possibly have heard that shot, even if there had been someone listening at door or windows, which, of course, there was not."
He walked to the safe, and unlocked the door. Then he inserted his key in the back wall and ushered me into the secret room.
"In here," he said, "no noise, however great, could be heard without these walls. They are sound-proof, for I have tested them myself. I fired a pistol by means of a mechanism, and then listened in the hall for its explosion. I heard nothing. When I returned to this room the pistol had gone off, as was intended. So you can see that shooting his victim in here with the doors closed there was no chance that the shot would be heard by anyone in the house at the time."
I stared at him in astonishment. "But, McKelvie, Jones proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that Philip Darwin had just risen in his chair at the table when he was shot," I protested.
"Jones proved it!" he jeered. "Ye gods! Jones proved it! Of course he proved it. What else would you expect of Jones? Why do you suppose the murderer took the trouble to make those marks in the carpet except to fool the police?" he raged. "Certainly Jones proved it when it was put there for that purpose!"
"Granted," I said pacifically. "He shot Darwin in this secret room. Then what?"
McKelvie calmed down and resumed his story. "Then he proceeded to manufacture evidence. He carried his victim through the safe," returning to the study as he spoke and relocking the entrance, "placed him in that chair and arranged everything to look as though Philip Darwin had been writing, as indeed he had been when Orton came in at eleven-thirty. Then, satisfied that all was as perfect as he could make it, he turned off the light and waited."
"What for?"
"Mrs. Darwin, naturally."
"How on earth did he know she would come into the room? How could he possibly divine that I would urge her to get me that letter when I only spoke on impulse myself?"
McKelvie sighed. "I'm not omniscient. If I could tell you how he knew it, or why, I could tell you who committed the crime. I am only reconstructing what actually happened, for he was in the room at midnight, wasn't he, since he fired that second shot and lighted the lamp? And is it reasonable to suppose that it took him twenty minutes to shoot his victim and place him in that chair?"
I acquiesced, but not because I could see through the affair. It was growing more intricate with every step we took. "But why, man, why?" I persisted.
"Because he needed a scapegoat. It may be, of course, and probably is, the fact that he was about to leave when he heard Mrs. Darwin try the door, and that the idea then came to him to incriminate her."
"Why—that's monstrous!" I cried.
McKelvie shrugged. "When you are dealing with a murderer, his little ideas are apt to be rather outside the pale of civilized folk," he returned ironically. "By providing the police with a suspect he escaped their vigilance. Mrs. Darwin had the most motive for killing her husband; therefore, she made the best possible victim. But he figured without me. It's like a game of chess. He makes a move. I block him. At present it's 'check,' with all the advantage on his side and every prospect of the jury finding Mrs. Darwin guilty of the murder."
He had forgotten my presence and was talking to himself, his eyes grown dreamy as he gazed into the distance. At my exclamation, he passed a hand across his eyes, saying in a different tone, "I beg your pardon. I forgot in my interest in matching my wits against his, that to you Mrs. Darwin is more than a pawn in the game."
"McKelvie, surely you can't be serious," I implored him.
"I'm sorry to say that I am," he returned. "The prosecution has a very strong case, and we have nothing we can offer that refutes a single point that they can make." He moved away from the window, where he had been sitting for some little time, and began to pace the room in long, even strides.
"If only I knew where that second bullet had lodged itself! The physician declares there was only one wound and only one bullet; therefore, it's not in Darwin's body. Also, I have searched every square inch of this room—walls, ceiling, floor, carpet and furniture. There's not a trace, nor even the faintest shadow of a trace of that bullet!"
He shook his head despairingly, but I had hardly listened to his harangue. My mind had leaped to a sudden joyful conclusion.
"McKelvie," I cried, "we have evidence to refute their arguments! Let's go before the district attorney and tell him what we have learned and insist on his releasing Ruth at once!"
"What evidence do you refer to?" he inquired a bit coldly. "Do you take me for a mere calculating machine without any human feelings and consideration for others? Don't you suppose that if I had any valuable evidence I should have used it to advantage long ere this?"
"Why," I stammered, all the wind taken out of my sails, "what about the—the secret entrance?"
"As to that, it may or may not have been used upon that fatal night. We conjecture because we are proving Mrs. Darwin innocent, but we do not positively know anything about it," he put in imperturbably. "Mr. Darwin may have lost or misplaced his key."
"How do you account then for the lighting of the lamp from the safe?" I persisted.
"Again, we do not know it was so lighted. Often, if a connection is loose, a jar or shock will light the lamp of itself."
"But the shot in the dark?"
"Ah, the police don't believe for a second that the room was ever in darkness at any time. They believe that you and Mrs. Darwin concocted that bit of evidence."
"When?" I spluttered.
"You gave the wrong impression about Mrs. Darwin the night of the crime. They would argue collusion before their arrival."
"But, McKelvie, what about the actual time when Philip Darwin was killed, twenty minutes before Ruth ever set foot in the study?" I continued, exasperated by his skillful refutation of my arguments.
"On what do I base that conclusion?" he asked quietly.
"On Dr. Haskins' testimony."
"Exactly. And do you believe for a moment that the district attorney will give credence to a fact which Coroner Graves practically ruled out of his court?" he demanded.
But I was still determined to have my way, for I wanted to free Ruth above everything else. "There's the second shot to prove it," I said stubbornly.
He looked at me a moment with a strange smile, then he tapped his head significantly. "Pardon me," he said quizzically, as I flushed angrily, "I had forgotten you are in love and that lovers are never logical. Don't be angry with me and I'll show you what would happen if I approached Grenville with your last statement as a proof of my previous deductions. You have no experience in such matters, but, unfortunately, I know Grenville so very well."
McKelvie drew his mouth down in imitation of the district attorney, whose picture I had seen more than once in the paper, and then continued his exposition, mimicking Grenville's soft voice, as I suppose, whenever the part demanded it.
"When I had been ushered into his office he would adjust his glasses and listen with an air of great politeness to all I had to say. Then, when I was through he would smile, still politely, very, if a trifle sarcastically, and remark in his purring voice (the purr of the tiger before he shows his claws):
"'Of course, since only one shot was fired from Mr. Darwin's pistol, you have brought with you the weapon that produced the second shot?'
"I would have to acknowledge that I not only had no such weapon, but not even the prospect of finding it.
"'No? Then, of course,' with a still deeper purr, 'you have brought me the bullet itself?'
"'Well, no,' I would answer sheepishly, 'I haven't even got that.'
"'What! No bullet either? Dear, dear, Mr. McKelvie, you really are a genius in your line. And you would actually have me credit the evidence of a chimera, a hypothetical revolver that fires a shot that leaves no trace——'"
Here McKelvie broke off abruptly and banged his fist against his forehead. "Stupid, stupid. Oh, that someone would write me down an ass!"
"What's the trouble, now?" I asked. "I thought you were doing very well."
"As regards Grenville? Well, I'm glad you realize that we couldn't prove anything with mere deduction unsubstantiated by facts, for any clever prosecutor could knock our evidence into a cocked hat. No, I was referring to something else," he returned, gazing somberly before him with a look akin to horror in his eyes.
"What is it?" I demanded.
He shook off whatever was troubling him and replied in a self-contemptuous tone, "Nothing, except that I must be getting old. I have actually allowed myself to ape that pompous idiot of a coroner's physician, and have thus been guilty of the worst crime in the decalogue of a detective. I have been fitting the facts to my theory instead of fitting my theory to the facts!"
"And that proves?"
"Just what I told you before, that we are face to face with a far cleverer, more cold-blooded man than even I had given him credit for being!"
I was taken by surprise when Mason knocked on the door to tell us that he had prepared some luncheon for us. We had talked for two hours and had virtually arrived—nowhere! The thing was beginning to get on my nerves and I said as much to McKelvie as we seated ourselves at the table.
"Yes," he returned. "It's getting on mine, too. I feel like—well, a person tied to a tree, who can go so far and no farther. But I'm going to break away."
"You mean you are going to try to locate the criminal since we can find no clues to help Ruth?" I asked.
"No, not directly, at present. I'm going to try to locate substantial evidence against him, for your clever criminal is not so easily caught. The trouble lies right here. Though I know the murderer is clever I have no idea as to his identity, because I do not absolutely know the true motive for the crime. Or, rather, I should say, no proof, for unfortunately there are any number of persons who might have been in the house at that time and who had sufficient motive for killing Darwin."
"Can't some of them produce alibis?"
"Alibis! I spent all day yesterday chasing alibis. Let's go over them. First, there's Mr. Trenton——"
"Heavens! You don't suspect him?" I gasped.
"Why not? Don't you suppose he realized as you did that he was primarily to blame for Mrs. Darwin's marriage? And didn't he, while living in this house, have an opportunity to witness and resent the treatment accorded to his daughter? And more than resent his own humiliation at the hands of Philip Darwin, a humiliation of which even young Darwin was cognizant, if he spoke the truth at the inquest?"
"You're right. I hadn't connected him with the affair at all. I suppose because he was away," I replied.
He smiled. "I think we can safely knock him off our list, for though he had motive he had not the opportunity. I motored to Tarrytown yesterday and had an interview with Mrs. Bailey. On the night of the seventh, Mr. Trenton was ill, too ill to leave his bed, and precisely at midnight she, herself, and her doctor were in attendance upon him."
"I'm glad of that," I said, drawing a long breath. "It's bad enough as it is without dragging Mr. Trenton into it, too."
"Though I made certain of his alibi because I am leaving no stones unturned in this case, still I never for one moment believed him guilty. It would be a monstrous father, indeed, who would let his daughter remain in jail if a word from him could clear her, particularly if he loved her and had bitterly repented of his former treatment of her."
"That's one off the list. Who else could have done it?" I prompted, as he remained absorbed in thought.
"Cunningham is clever, and though he may have had opportunity, he lacks motive. I saw the telephone girl in the apartment house where he has a suite of rooms. She says that he left town about the first of October and did not return until about ten o'clock the morning of the eighth. Of course he might have got in the night before, in which case he spent the night in the street or with a friend, for he is not registered at any of the hotels, although he could have registered under an assumed name, both of which presumptions are absurd, since he could have easily returned home and none the wiser. The girl said he looked as he usually did when he returned from out of town, but she had no idea where he went. It seems he has many out-of-town clients whom he visits occasionally, and it would certainly take quite a while to locate them and get the desired information, with the chances ten to one that he went somewhere else altogether, and had nothing to do with the murder after all. The only thing I have against him is that he is clever, and for that matter so I should judge was Richard Trenton."
"You think Dick might have done it?"
"I'm overlooking no one. I saw Jones and got from him all the data concerning Trenton's actions on that night. Also I telegraphed to the Chicago police to try to locate anyone who may have known him there and we should be hearing from that end in a day or two. There is one fact that stands out clearly, and can't be explained away. He left the hotel before eleven and did not return until one. Also there is no trace of where he went during that time since, though he taxied to the hotel, he was clever enough to take the Subway or the surface car to his destination. Then we have the letter he wrote his father, which certainly points to his intention to see Philip Darwin. Whether he did or not, we don't know, but it's quite probable that he did come here, and that the two men had a conference of some sort. Again I'm inclined to believe that he is innocent for the same reason that exonerated the father in my eyes. Yet there is his suicide to account for, and the still stranger fact that he left no word of any kind to explain his act."
He paused, then continued with a shake of the head, "There's not much use bothering with him at present, for he's beyond helping us in our predicament. There are others who may prove more useful."
"What about Lee?" I inquired, remembering the stick-pin and where it had been found.
"Lee Darwin is the most likely suspect that I have," he returned, then quietly busied himself with his dessert, for Mason had entered and was hovering around. "By the way," he added, as we left the dining-room, "I have an appointment with the steward of the Yale Club on this very matter. I went there yesterday but Carpe was away and I left word that I would call at one-thirty to see him. Supposing you drive me over."
"After this visit I'll be able to decide whether our young friend had the chance to commit murder," he continued when we were in the car headed for the Yale Club. "He had plenty of motive."
"Chance, too, McKelvie. Didn't you say yourself that he was there that night when you first showed me his stick-pin?"
"I said he was there and I still say it, but that means nothing at all. We have got to prove that he was there at the psychological moment."
I nodded. "But, even if he had been, I can't see where you find a motive. He quarreled with his uncle, I know, but there was nothing in that to cause him to shoot Darwin."
"Wasn't there?" answered McKelvie. "Surely you don't believe that he really quarreled with his uncle about Mrs. Darwin? It's absurd on the face of it, that he should suddenly object to treatment that he had accepted with utter indifference for five months or so. No, no, I have another theory altogether about that quarrel."
Our arrival at the Club put an end to our discussion. Carpe, the steward, whom I had interviewed the night I first sought McKelvie, came forward as we entered. He was a big, dependable fellow, this steward, and had been in the employ of the Club for years. Moreover, he could be trusted to give correct information about the doings of the various members of the Club, all of whom he knew well.
"Good afternoon," he said pleasantly. "If you will come into the office I shall be glad to accommodate you."
We followed him into a small room at the side of the hall and he invited us to be seated, as he dropped heavily into a chair at his desk, but McKelvie remained standing, and as he put his questions he paced back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back.
"I desire to ask you some questions about Mr. Lee Darwin, Mr. Carpe," he began. "You have heard nothing from him since he left?"
"No, sir, not a word," replied Carpe, slowly.
"Go back to October seventh, Mr. Carpe. Lee Darwin engaged rooms for that night, did he not?" continued McKelvie.
"Yes. He called me personally about noon and said he wanted a suite of rooms for an indefinite time. He came in some time during the afternoon but went out again at five o'clock."
"You are sure of the time?"
"Yes. There was to be a banquet of some kind to which he had been invited. It was just striking five as he came into my office here and told me he could not attend, asking me to make his excuses for him. He said he would not be back until late. It made an impression on me at the time because he was not in evening clothes and I had always known Mr. Lee Darwin for a very fastidious young man."
"Do you know what time he got back?" McKelvie inquired after a pause.
"He didn't come back that night," answered Carpe.
McKelvie and I exchanged glances. "You could swear to that?" asked McKelvie eagerly.
"I could. I sleep on the first floor at the back of the house. About five o'clock in the morning I heard someone knocking on my window and I got up to see who wanted me at such an hour. We don't keep open house at this Club. In the dim light I saw that the man was Mr. Lee Darwin, so I motioned him to the back and opened the door for him myself. It was quite a shock to me to see him, I can tell you. He was pale and wild-eyed and his clothes were rumpled and dusty. He stumbled in and I helped him to his room. He told me to keep quiet about him and naturally I promised. I thought he had been out on a spree of some kind. He acted as if he might have been drinking," explained Carpe ponderously.
"What did he do after you promised silence?" McKelvie took a turn around the room as he put the question.
"He went to bed, and at luncheon time I awakened him. He dressed hurriedly and rushed out without eating and did not return until three. There was a telegram waiting for him. He read it and then tore it up and his hands were trembling as he did so. Then he remarked that he was leaving for the South on business and asked me to leave his rooms undisturbed. He left in ten minutes and that is the last I have seen of him," replied Carpe.
"When he came back the morning of the eighth, were you really positive that he had been drinking, or did he give you another impression as well?" continued McKelvie.
"Well, to be candid, at the time he seemed to me to be scared, as if he had seen something that had terrified him plumb out of his wits. It was afterwards in thinking it over that I decided that he had been out on a lark," responded Carpe, after a moment's consideration.
"I should like to examine his rooms," said McKelvie abruptly.
"Certainly." Carpe rose and led the way up the stairs, along a hall and into a suite consisting of a dressing-room, bedroom, and bath.
The rooms were nicely furnished but were not unusual in any way and gave no indication of having been recently used. Everything was in immaculate order.
"Any of his belongings still around?" queried McKelvie.
"Yes, he left some things in the chiffonier."
McKelvie strode to the article of furniture in question and examined its contents with great care, as if hunting for some definite object. Then with a shrug he announced that he was through. I thought he had been disappointed in his search, but one look into his sparkling eyes told me a different tale. He had been successful, but what had he expected to find?
"Thank you, Mr. Carpe. I'm much obliged to you. Keep my visit a secret, particularly as your information may not be of value to me and might, if gossiped about, merely create an unpleasant situation for the young man," said McKelvie as we returned to the lower floor.
"Just as you say. Good afternoon, Mr. McKelvie," and the door closed behind us.
As we descended the steps I said curiously, "What did you find, McKelvie?"
For answer he pulled from his pocket a small yellow satin sachet bag with the initials L. D. embroidered on it in blue. He placed it in my hand and with the remark, "Take a good whiff. It's a heavenly scent."
I held the dainty bag to my nostrils and inhaled deeply. It was wonderfully, delicately fragrant. I had a distinct recollection of having been recently made conscious that there was in this world such a subtle, elusive perfume, but for the moment I could not place it. Like a melody that haunts by its familiarity even when its name eludes the mind, did this perfume waft across my senses the knowledge that I had breathed in its fragrance before and on two distinct occasions. Then memory awoke and I saw myself drawing back from a blood-stained handkerchief which had been suddenly thrust beneath my nose at Headquarters, and recalled wondering where I had come across that perfume before. Ah, I had it. It was Dick who first introduced me to it. He also had a tiny sachet of yellow satin embroidered in blue and when I noticed it with some astonishment among his things he laughed in an embarrassed way and said a girl he knew had made it for him. When I asked him what it was he named it for me with a shame-faced look.
The subtle perfume that now assailed my nostrils and delighted my senses was none other than the fragrance that scented Dick's belongings, that clung to the Persian silk cover in the secret room, and that had left its trace on that square of cambric that Philip Darwin had been holding, the fragrance of Rose Jacqueminot! And Rose Jacqueminot meant a woman and the only woman I could think of was—Cora Manning.
"What do you make of this, McKelvie?" I asked, returning the sachet.
He shrugged. "May be important and may not. I was more interested in hearing that he had been out all night."
"Which means of course that he had the opportunity," I interpreted.
"Yes, he had the opportunity, but he may not have used it. His stick-pin is no proof that he was there at midnight. There are all sorts of possibilities in a case like this one. However, he did have ample motive, for besides the quarrel there is the will. I examined specimens of Philip Darwin's handwriting. He does not make his capitals with a flourish. He makes his R's straight. So he was disinheriting his nephew and not his wife. Also the criminal knew that fact, or why his attempt to destroy the scraps by burning, which would account, you see, for his still being in the study when Mrs. Darwin entered."
"Somehow I can't believe Lee did it—unless it was on impulse," I said, recalling the young man's noble countenance. "Besides, McKelvie, surely he isn't so depraved as to implicate Ruth!"
"'Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?'" he quoted. "He has the Darwin blood in his veins."
"So has Dick for that matter," I thought to myself.
"I don't mean to imply by that that he necessarily committed the murder," continued McKelvie. "I merely state that he had plenty of motive and chance. But so did several others, as we know. And even if he is the murderer we have no proof of that fact; nor does there seem to be at present any chance of questioning him. I have a man on his trail, but so far Wilkins has met with no success. He's evidently disguised, since no one recognizes his photograph, which, added to his use of Rose Jacqueminot sachet, looks very bad indeed."
"Why?" I put in.
"Ask me that again later and I may be able to give you a more definite answer," he retorted. "To return to the subject. It may take months to find Lee and we haven't months to waste on this case."
"What do you propose to do then?" I asked despairingly.
"I'm going to let you drive me over to Forty-second Street to see Claude Orton," he responded, entering my car.
As we drove toward Forty-second Street, I recalled my instinctive distrust of the secretary, his stealthy attitude, and very evident desire to see Ruth convicted. I had suspected him that very first night, and now I envisioned him sneaking through the secret entrance and returning to the house in time to follow me into the study.
"I know what you are thinking, but he couldn't possibly have done it," said McKelvie quietly. "He's the only one I don't suspect. He hasn't the nerve in the first place, and in the second place he hadn't the time. How long do you suppose it takes to lock all those doors—they were locked, remember—and return to the house and lock whatever entrance he used—not the front door, for you would have heard him—and enter the study a second after yourself?"
"He may never have gone out," I cried. "He could easily have stayed in the room all the time in a dark corner and have come forward when he turned on the lights. I swear I never heard him!"
"What about Mrs. Darwin's testimony that he was in the hall?" he asked.
"She may have been mistaken. He gave false evidence concerning her."
"That's what we are going to see him about. But, remember this, Mrs. Darwin would have no reason for saying she saw him if she did not."
To this last statement I had to agree, for Ruth I knew disliked Orton, and would hardly be likely to shield him. So I ceased discussing the point, knowing we would soon have the truth, for McKelvie could extract information from a stone.
In due course we drew up before a second-rate apartment hotel that was sadly in need of a coat of paint. We entered a dingy hall and inquired for Orton.
"Suite Four, third door to your left," droned the switchboard girl.
We walked down the hall, which would have been decidedly improved by an application of a mop and some soap and water, and knocked at Orton's apartment. As we waited we heard the sound of a door closing, and then the shuffle of feet and presently the door opened a crack and Orton's near-sighted eyes peered at us from the aperture.
"What do you want?" he asked impatiently.
"A moment's conversation," replied McKelvie, but at that minute Orton recognized me and, swiftly retreating, began to close the door.
McKelvie, however, was prepared for him and the closing door met an obstruction in the shape of the toe of McKelvie's boot.
"There is no use trying to keep me out," he continued sternly, "unless of course you would like to tell your story to the police."
At mention of the police Orton retreated still farther, and we followed him into the apartment, closing the door behind us. We found ourselves in a stuffy, gloomy little parlor filled with a lot of ugly, old-fashioned furniture. Orton, who was clad in dressing-gown and slippers, ungraciously asked us to be seated, but before we could state our errand a quavering voice from somewhere in the rear reached us.
"What is it, Claude? Who is in there with you?" it said.
"You have frightened my mother," said Orton, plucking at the cord of his wrapper, as if undecided whether to go or stay.
"Tell her it's all right and that you know who we are," commanded McKelvie. "And without leaving this room," as Orton started to move away. "I guess she can hear you from here."
Sullenly, Orton obeyed, and then seating himself on the sofa, demanded what we wanted.
"At the inquest you gave several bits of information which had no foundation in fact," began McKelvie, going straight to the point. "You lied and you know it. For that matter so do I. Now I want to know why?"
"Mr. Davies, of course I know," answered Orton with a sneer. "But what right have you to question me?"
"I am investigating the case for Mr. Davies on the quiet," answered McKelvie suavely.
"And that gives you the right to intrude on my privacy, I suppose?" continued Orton sarcastically (he had abandoned his rôle of "humble still," or rather he was Uriah Heep grown bold through triumph), "and to force yourself into my rooms?"
McKelvie shrugged. "Really if you would rather be put through the third degree at Police Headquarters it's a matter of indifference to me."
Orton's pallid face became livid. "Are you trying to frighten me by pretending that you believe that I killed Philip Darwin?" he cried, but his voice trembled in spite of himself.
"No, I'm not pretending any such thing. I know you didn't kill him. You're too much of a coward," returned McKelvie contemptuously, whereat Orton gave a gasping sigh of relief. "But I do say you know more of this murder than you gave out, and a hint to that effect in the ear of Jones will be quite sufficient to bring the police to this place. No doubt you have a telephone that I can use. I'll give you five minutes to decide."
But Orton didn't need five minutes, no, nor even ten seconds. McKelvie had hardly finished speaking when Orton flung himself forward with clasped hands, his prominent eyes fairly popping with terror.
"I'll tell you everything, anything, though I declare I know nothing. Only don't send the police here," he pleaded in a frightened voice.
I was amazed at his abject fear but McKelvie motioned him back, and said coldly: "Very well, but don't lie to me, for I know why you fear the police." He leaned closer and whispered a word that I did not catch, but which had the effect of making Orton wring his hands helplessly, and whine that he never intended to lie, and would tell us everything we wanted to know.
McKelvie silenced him with a gesture, as he said: "I want an account, a true one, of everything that you did and said and saw on the night of October the seventh between ten-thirty, when you summoned Mrs. Darwin to the study and midnight, when the shot rang out."
"I wanted to tell what Mr. Darwin had said and they wouldn't let me at the inquest," put in Orton, aggrieved.
"You're not dealing with the police now, and I want every word that has any bearing on the case, whatever its purport."
"Very well. At ten-thirty I told Mrs. Darwin that her husband wanted her and then I listened at the door. They were quarreling about the love letter I had put together for him."
"When did you show him this letter?" interrupted McKelvie.
"In the morning after Lee left the study. Mr. Darwin told me to patch it together because he said it would come in handy some day. It did—that night," and he leered at me in a very unpleasant way.
"Go on," said McKelvie peremptorily.
"I couldn't hear what they said——"
"Then how did you know that they were quarreling about the letter?" I asked.
"I was going to say," Orton ignored me completely, "that I couldn't hear the words exchanged until I opened the door a crack. Then I heard very well, indeed. Mr. Darwin was threatening Mr. Davies, and Mrs. Darwin retorted that she would send for him and warn him, but he only laughed in a queer way and then I saw her coming, so I retreated. After that he called me in and told me to watch her. I crept upstairs and heard her orders to the maid, whom I followed to the garage. Then I came back and hung around the hall. Mr. Darwin had told me he was expecting a visitor, so when I came back I applied my ear to the door. I could hear voices, his and a strange one, but not what they said, though they spoke loudly as if in anger."
"Why didn't you open the door a crack?" I inquired sarcastically.
"Because I was too clever. Mr. Darwin had locked the door when I went out and I knew it was still locked. Besides at ten-thirty only the lamp was lighted and the region of the door was in comparative darkness, but at this particular time I could tell by applying my eye to the key-hole that the other lights had been turned on as well. So even if I could have opened the door I should still have been afraid of being seen."
"Never mind that. Go on with what's important," broke in McKelvie, impatiently.
"At eleven-twenty-five Mr. Davies arrived, and at eleven-thirty Mr. Darwin called me."
"How?"
"There's a bell connection between the study and my workroom. When I went in Mr. Darwin had resumed his seat at the table and looked pretty much as he did when we saw him later, except he was alive."
"A good deal of difference, I should judge," I thought to myself, "between a corpse and a well man. However, that's neither here nor there."
"He had just finished writing the name, Cora Manning, on his new will, for the ink was not yet dry when I reached the table. I told him all that had taken place. It was then he laughed and said: 'So we've a broker in the house, eh? He should know how to play fast and loose, eh? I'll make him useful, this broker lover of our stainless Ruth.'"
Orton mouthed the words with devilish delight and I had all I could do to keep my hands off of him. But McKelvie paid no heed to our feelings.
"Go on, man," he said with growing impatience. "Don't repeat what I know already."
"You said that you wanted to hear everything that was spoken," grumbled Orton.
"Yes, so I did. Only hustle along and get it out. Was that all he said?" demanded McKelvie.
"No. He said something else. I remarked that a broker ought to know how to play fast and loose, and he replied: 'Yes, and other things, too, eh? Mr. Davies doesn't know it yet, but he has done me the very greatest service by coming here to-night. See that the windows are properly locked and then go to bed.' As I locked the windows I could hear him laughing to himself, and he was still laughing when I closed the door behind me."
"What did you think he meant to convey by those words of his?" asked McKelvie.
"I thought he might be referring to the fact that now he had good grounds for divorce. I believe he was tired of Mrs. Darwin," replied Orton.
"You are sure that Mr. Darwin was alone at eleven-thirty?" continued McKelvie, after a slight pause.
"Yes, absolutely alone," responded Orton. "There was no place where anyone could hide. I examined the window hangings as I locked up."
"What about the safe?"
"It was partly open and I looked in as I passed. It was empty."
"Humph. Now I'd have sworn—" murmured McKelvie.
"What?" asked Orton inquisitively.
"Nothing. What's the rest of your story?" retorted McKelvie.
"I didn't go to bed. I wanted to see what would happen, for I was sure from the way he spoke that Mr. Darwin meant to call Mr. Davies into the study later on, so I continued to work in the little room until I grew weary and thirsty, and going out in the hall found that it was about ten minutes to twelve. Still nothing had happened, for I could hear the murmur of voices in the drawing-room."
He didn't have to tell us how he knew. We could guess. Ruth was right in saying that he was always spying upon her.
"I knew," he continued, "that Mr. Darwin kept a good brand of whisky, private stock of course, in a cabinet in the dining-room, and I determined to mix myself a drink. But just then I heard the key turned in the study door and thinking Mr. Darwin was coming out, I went back to my room and closed the door. I waited some time, maybe five minutes or more, and then looked out. No one was around and both drawing-room and study doors were closed. I decided I had missed the show, since there was no sound from either room, and I determined to have my drink before I went upstairs. I went in to the dining-room and had my hand on the cabinet key when the shot rang out. I hurried to the study and saw—Mr. Davies in the doorway, Mrs. Darwin holding the pistol, and Mr. Darwin dead."
"You didn't see Mrs. Darwin go into the study?" questioned McKelvie.
"No, but I judged she had gone in when I heard the study door unlock. You see, I did not know what might happen, especially when Mr. Davies said I had no proof that I wasn't in the study also, so I decided to have an alibi for the police. That's why I said I was on the stairs because then they would not know where I had really been. I didn't know that Mrs. Darwin had seen me."
"A good thing for you that she did see you," returned McKelvie grimly, "or you might be occupying that cell in her place."
Orton blanched like the coward that he was. "But—but, I'm innocent," he said, indignantly.
"Well, you wouldn't be the first innocent person to grace a cell, I assure you," retorted McKelvie dryly. "You have told us everything?"
"Yes, everything."
"Very well, then you can answer several questions. You are positive you heard the key turned in the study door when you stood in the hall at ten minutes to twelve?" continued McKelvie. "Remember I want facts, and not impressions."
"I am as positive as that I am sitting here. But it was more toward five minutes to twelve because I paused to ascertain if Mrs. Darwin was still in the drawing-room and I listened for a minute or two before I started for the dining-room," replied Orton with conviction.
"A minute is a good long while, longer than you think, Orton," returned McKelvie. "But that point is, after all, immaterial. We will say that somewhere between ten and five minutes to twelve the study door was unlocked from the inside," and he looked at me significantly.
If he was right in his premise, then the person who unlocked that door could have been none other than the criminal, for at ten minutes before midnight Philip Darwin was past unlocking doors! Yet it seemed a foolhardy thing to do, for any one then could have entered and discovered him. But, no, after all, it was the sensible thing to do from his point of view, since otherwise the prospective suspect would have been unable to enter the room. Then I looked at McKelvie with dawning horror in my eyes. The unlocking of that door could have meant only one thing, that the criminal knew Ruth was across the hall, and deliberately, cold-bloodedly, planned to saddle her with the murder of her husband!
"Why, McKelvie," I began, horrified, but he tread on my toe as if by accident, and I recalled hastily that we were not alone.
"Even if I had not heard Mr. Darwin unlock the door," continued Orton ingratiatingly, "he must have unlocked it at some time, for I heard him turn the key in the lock when I left him at eleven-thirty and the door was open when Mrs. Darwin entered the room. But, I know I'm not mistaken in saying that I heard it unlocked."
"How do you know that it was Mr. Darwin who unlocked it?" I asked injudiciously.
McKelvie frowned, but Orton answered without apparent suspicion, "He was alone in a closed room. Who else could have opened it, Mr. Davies?"
"No one, of course," I lied cheerfully, and subsided into the background, not wishing to give Orton any further inkling of what we knew.
"When you came out into the hall the second time, you said that you heard no sound from either room. Did you open the study door even a crack that time by any chance?" resumed McKelvie.
"No. Again I feared to be seen. You see that all the lights in the room had been turned on," replied Orton.
Even McKelvie was taken aback by this statement, more so than I was, I could see, because he was firmly convinced that the criminal waited for Ruth in a darkened room. I stole a glance at Orton to see whether he was triumphing over us, but he was sitting in the same dejected attitude and did not act at all as though he had made a remarkable declaration. Yet if he spoke the truth, he sent our theories tumbling about our ears like a house of cards from which one of the foundation units had been suddenly removed. If the study was lighted at that time, then Ruth must have seen the criminal, yet she had said she was shielding no one and I believed her. What paradox was this, then? Even McKelvie was puzzled.
"I wish I were sure you are speaking the truth," he muttered, looking at Orton in a reflective way.
"It is the truth. Why should I make it up? I applied my eye to the key-hole to make doubly sure, even when I saw the light shining beneath the doorsill," said Orton, and there was no mistaking his sincerity and genuine surprise that McKelvie should doubt him.
"You did not chance to see anyone when you applied your eye to the key-hole?" went on McKelvie, putting aside his conjectures.
"No, I saw no one."
"You are acquainted with the details of Mr. Darwin's business, are you not?" McKelvie remarked, abruptly changing the subject.
"Yes, I'm conversant with a good deal of it," responded Orton.
"Is it true that he removed his securities from Cunningham's office and used them to speculate with?" continued McKelvie.
"I suppose so since the lawyer says it. I myself never even knew he had those securities. I attended strictly to his business in connection with the bank, answering letters, arranging committee meetings, taking notes of any agreements the directors came to, and so on. He speculated with his own private funds, and advised his brokers himself, so I know nothing beyond the fact that his transactions were large," answered Orton.
"You didn't hear any rumors that he was speculating in M. and R. stock, for instance?"
"Well, yes, he told me himself that he was going to take a chance on it," replied Orton after a slight hesitation.
"He didn't happen to mention that he was ruined, did he, on the afternoon of the seventh?" insisted McKelvie.
"Ruined!" Orton's eyes fairly popped with amazement. "No, I had no idea it was as bad as that."
"What do you mean?" asked McKelvie quickly.
"I was watching that stock go down, and when he came into the office that afternoon I asked him casually if he had invested. He said, 'Yes, heavily,' in a dull kind of voice, but I thought nothing more about it, because he was always pessimistic whenever he speculated and I also knew he was too cautious to put up more than he could afford. I can't believe he could have invested his whole fortune," and Orton shook his head with a shrewd glance at us.
"Rumors are apt to exaggerate," responded McKelvie lightly. "By the way, how much was his whole fortune?"
"I don't really know, but I believe he got quite a bit when he married Mrs. Darwin. At least I gathered as much from something she said to him one day when he had been particularly mean to her," explained Orton.
"Do you recall the exact words?" asked McKelvie, ignoring my frown.
"Not the exact words, but the sense of them," answered Orton with a smile. "She wanted to know if he hadn't humiliated her enough when he forced her to sign over to him her fortune, thus leaving her dependent upon him, and he replied with a sneer, 'That's all I married you for, my dear.'"
At that moment I rejoiced in the murder, and should have thought no ill of her if Ruth herself had done it. It was not murder but the justifiable removal of a venomous snake. I was beginning to regret I had not done it myself six months before when it first occurred to me as the only solution to our trouble.
"I think that is all then. Say nothing about our having been here, and I'll do the same with regard to your affairs. By the way, at the trial you may use the alibi you gave the police. You might find it awkward explaining why you lied to them." McKelvie rose as he spoke, and walked toward the door.
"You're not joking? I can give the same evidence I gave before?" gasped Orton incredulously.
"Yes, only take care not to trip yourself up under cross-examination, though I doubt if there is much danger from Mr. Vaughn. Why on earth did you pick that old fossil to defend her?" he continued, as we re-entered my car. "The prosecution will put it all over him from the start."
"I went to him because he was the only one I could think of at the moment, but he will not defend her himself, McKelvie. He will employ other counsel. Though I can't see that it matters much what kind of counsel we have or if we have any at all, for the prosecution has the facts while we have—mere theories," I returned gloomily.
"You're right. We have only theories and for a moment mine got a mortal blow when Orton said the study was lighted, for as near as I can figure that must have been just before Mrs. Darwin went in. Lord, if Grenville knew that fact he'd laugh in your face when you testify, as I presume you will, that the study was in darkness. Yes, and how much store would the jury set by Mrs. Darwin's account then?"
"Is that the reason you told Orton to repeat his evidence?" I asked.
"Naturally. I'm not giving my opponents any more points in their favor. The game is unequal enough as it is," he replied, drawing his brows together in an effort to reconcile the various facts in the case.
"But, Orton may give us away," I said presently. "He may become frightened when he has to testify under oath."
"He's looking out for A No. 1 and he's an adept liar, to boot. Besides, he'd say nothing to make me reveal what I know about him," retorted McKelvie, coming out of his abstraction.
"What do you know about him?" I asked curiously.
"Only that he's mixed up in some boot-legging scheme. Not much of a hold, you think? Perhaps not, where a fearless man was concerned, but Claude Orton is the greatest coward I have met in many a day. The very word police is enough to scare him out of his wits, but he isn't worth a moment's thought. I wanted to frighten him badly enough to get at the truth and it netted us nothing in the end," he added, shifting impatiently in his seat.
I laughed sardonically. "You forget. It netted us a lighted room," I remarked.
McKelvie turned toward me with a look of deep concern in his eyes. "Tell me," he said, "do you believe it was cleverness or sheer bravado that made the criminal light the study with the door unlocked? Give me your opinion."
"How should I know?" I retorted glumly. "It's my opinion he was liable to do anything."
"He could hardly be cognizant of the fact that Orton was prowling around, and he could easily turn off the lights when he heard footsteps crossing the hall. That's doubtless just what he did, which would imply that he was somewhere near the door. What a pity Orton caught no glimpse of him! He would hardly leave Mrs. Darwin's entrance to chance. He'd want to know when she was coming, for he couldn't be certain of the time she would choose to enter, no, not if he were twice as clever." McKelvie was thinking aloud, his brows knit once more, but I did not hesitate to interrupt him. There was no Jenkins present to preserve the flow of his thoughts undisturbed.
"You seem to believe, or rather I should say, you seem absolutely convinced that the criminal knew that Ruth would come to the study. The same conviction, with all its attendant horror, flashed over me a while ago when you were questioning Orton. But, upon my honor, now I review the thing calmly, I can't figure on what you base your conclusion. Ruth had no more idea of going into that study than I had, until I suggested it to her on the spur of the moment. That's the truth. How are you going to get around it?" I said emphatically.
He pulled a briar pipe from his pocket and lighted it before he answered. "That's easy. The criminal was in the room when Orton came in at eleven-thirty. Probably he was hiding in the safe in the secret room——"
"I thought you deduced that the criminal knew nothing of the secret entrance until he forced the knowledge from Darwin just before he killed him," I pointed out.
"I said he did not enter that way, not that he had no knowledge of it. Orton said that Darwin and his visitor were quarreling. Darwin knew his secretary and divined that he'd be hanging around the door listening. So he called him in and got rid of him, in the meantime hiding his visitor in the safe, from which point of vantage he heard the conversation between Orton and Darwin. Am I correct so far?" he inquired.
"Sounds plausible enough," I replied.
"Knowing human nature (I make this deduction because throughout he has most certainly traded on his knowledge of human beings in general, and the police in particular), he put himself in your place. What would he do if he were in love with Mrs. Darwin and had learned of the existence of the letter. Why, naturally urge Mrs. Darwin to try to secure the incriminating evidence. So you see he was pretty sure she would come, but he did not know when. He couldn't possibly know when, could he?" he asked appealingly.
"No, I don't at this moment see how he could, unless he was a magician, which isn't likely. I think myself we are on the wrong tack altogether. We are trying to complicate a simple affair. The criminal, no doubt, came in at midnight and shot Darwin without knowing that Ruth was there. Then he went off again through the secret entrance, and Ruth was implicated by pure chance, for, after all, there is only one pistol, there was only one shot heard, and only one bullet found," was my contribution.
"All I can say to that, Mr. Davies, is that in that case the murderer must have been a magician after all, for surely you are not implying that Mrs. Darwin lied when she said the study was dark?" he remarked with a smile, blowing wreaths of smoke along Broadway, for we were driving slowly toward town.
I groaned. I had forgotten the problem of the shot in the dark. Assuredly it was a poser, for the feat was well-nigh impossible, unless we explained it by assuming a previous shot, which would have been all to the good if McKelvie could only have found the lost bullet.
"You have reverted to the theory that the crime was one of impulse," continued McKelvie. "Disabuse your mind of any such idea. That murder was premeditated. It was done in cold-blood, and planned down to the smallest detail, days before it occurred. And so very carefully was it planned that the criminal was able to work Mrs. Darwin into the scheme, without in the least disturbing his previous calculations. That is why we are stumped for the present, because I have not yet been able to put my finger on the weak spot in the link. There is bound to be a weak spot, there always is no matter how clever the criminal, but it may take longer than the time at our disposal before the trial. I shall have to pick up a new trail, since Orton had nothing of value to give us," McKelvie ended, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "Speed her up a little, Mr. Davies."
"What new trail?" I asked, obeying mechanically.
"The woman in the case," he said impressively.
"The woman in the case? You mean—Cora Manning?" I inquired.