PART V
DAY!
The River at Night.
CHAPTER I
What Happened in Suite Fourteen
IWAS conscious, in a dim way, that the end was at hand, that we were about to penetrate the mystery. Indeed, I already had a vague inkling of the truth—too vague to be put into words, too obscure to be discerned clearly. I was trembling with eagerness; I endeavoured to string upon a common thread the bits of evidence which had seemed to Godfrey so important—the bottle, the scratches on the wall, the coat-rack, the broken cane, the note; but for the life of me I could see no connection between them. Yet I knew there must be, or Godfrey would not now be walking up and down the room with a face so beaming, so triumphant…
“Miss Croydon will see you at once, sir,” announced Thomas from the threshold, and we followed him to the farther end of the corridor, where he tapped at a door. A voice bade us enter.
She was standing by a window, looking out across the waters of the bay, and she did not turn for an instant—not, indeed, until Godfrey had closed the door carefully behind him. I have seen few women more regal, more magnificent, yet there was about her—in her face, in the droop of her figure—such an air of utter misery, of exquisite suffering, that, after the first moment, one forgot to admire her in the desire to be of service.
“You wished to see me?” she asked, in a low voice.
“Yes, Miss Croydon,” replied Godfrey, more gently perhaps than he had intended to speak. “This is Mr. Lester,” he added, “who has been engaged to defend Mr. Drysdale.”
She acknowledged the introduction with the faintest of bows.
“I hope Mr. Lester will be successful,” she said, in the coldest of tones. One would have thought her a mere chance acquaintance of my client.
I saw Godfrey looking at her with searching eyes, and his face hardened.
“We mean to be successful,” he said curtly. “You may as well ask us to sit down, Miss Croydon, because our business here will take some time and I am sure it will tire you to stand.”
She raised her eyebrows with a little gesture of astonished disdain.
“Really,” she began; then her eyes met his, burning with meaning. “Oh, very well,” she said faintly, and sank into the chair nearest her.
I felt my cheeks flush with indignation at Godfrey’s manner; surely this woman had enough to bear already! I opened my lips to protest, but he silenced me with a glance.
“Now, Miss Croydon,” he continued, in the same coldly imperative tone, “I intend to speak to you bluntly and directly. We have beaten about the bush too long already. I see that you are not inclined to deal frankly with us—you have not been frank with us from the first—you have sought to blind us, to throw us off the track. Therefore I shall tell you what we already know, in order that you may realise how useless it is for you to try to hold us off. We’re going to see that the guilty man is punished, not for this crime alone, but also for that other one at the Marathon, of which you were the only witness. You shall not be permitted to keep him from justice a day longer.”
She raised her head and looked at him, her face white as marble and as immobile; but she did not speak. She grew livid and more livid as he continued, watching him with starting eyes, and at one moment I thought she would collapse; but I did not know her strength of will.
“In the first place,” went on Godfrey evenly, never removing his eyes from hers, “we know that this man Tremaine inveigled your sister into a school-girl elopement and marriage; she was rescued from him; she thought him dead; she married Delroy; came to New York; Tremaine followed her and attempted the extortion of blackmail; you met him at the Marathon; while you were talking, Thompson interfered and Tremaine killed him, escaping before the officers arrived. You did not know Thompson, but you saw Simmonds and me take out his pocket-book; you heard me read a line or two from one of a packet of clippings we found there, and while we were in the bedroom, you took those clippings from the body and hid them under the edge of the carpet”
She breathed a long sigh and sat erect again.
“Ah,” she said, with a little smile, “I was beginning to fear you, all that seemed so supernatural. But now I see where your information came from.”
“It is correct, then?” asked Godfrey, a gleam of triumph flashing across his face.
She glanced at him in surprise.
“Oh, I understand; it was merely theorising. Well, it was very cleverly done, Mr. Godfrey.”
“And it is correct?” he persisted.
She hesitated yet a moment, but there was no denying the importunity of his gaze.
“Yes,” she answered; “yes.”
Godfrey leaned back in his chair with a long sigh of relief. He had won the battle.
“Miss Croydon,” he said, “I’m going to reward you for your frankness by telling you something which I had intended to keep secret a while longer, just to punish you. Your sister never was the wife of Tremaine and has nothing whatever to fear from him; he has no hold on her at all. She has never been anybody’s wife but Mr. Delroy’s.”
She was staring at him with widely opened eyes, her hands clasped above her heart.
“Oh, if it were really so!” she cried. “If it were really so!”
“It is so,” repeated Godfrey, and took a little yellow envelope from his pocket. “Read this,” and he unfolded a sheet of paper and held it toward her.
She took it with trembling hand and read the message written upon it; but seemingly without understanding it.
“It is a cable,” he explained, “from the Record’s correspondent at Dieppe. Your pardon, Lester,” he added with a fleeting smile; “I forgot to show it to you on the trip out. Please read it aloud, Miss Croydon.”
“‘The widow of Victor Charente’” she read in a low voice, “‘died here February 21, 1901. Had never married again.’” She looked up, her brows still knitted. “Well?” she asked.
“Well,” said Godfrey, “Victor Charente is the real name of Tremaine. He married that girl many years before he met your sister. She was his legal wife. Your sister never was. She was never the legal wife of anyone except Richard Delroy.”
She understood now, and the glad tears burst forth unrestrainable. Indeed, she made no effort to restrain them, but only rocked back and forth, pressing the message against her heart.
“Thank God!” she sobbed, “Thank God!” and then she started up from her chair. “I must tell her,” she said, “at once. If you knew how she has suffered! She must not be left in that cruel position an instant longer.”
“Very well,” agreed Godfrey. “We will wait for you here.”
She disappeared through a door at the farther end of the room, but in a moment came softly back again.
“She is asleep,” she said. “I will wait until she wakes. What a joyful awaking it will be!” and she sat down again. She wiped away the tears, but her eyes were still shining. Godfrey gazed at her with a face full of emotion.
“Now, Miss Croydon,” he began, “you’ve told me that my theory’s correct, but there are three or four points I should like you to help me clear up, if you will.”
“I shall be glad to if I can,” she answered, and smiled at him, her eyes brimming again. “You’ve lifted such a load from me, Mr. Godfrey, that I’d do almost anything to show my gratitude.”
Why, looking at her, did his face change—soften, harden? Why did his hands tremble so? It was over in an instant; yet I had caught a glimpse of his secret, I understood…
“It was nothing,” he said; “I was glad to do it—I was deeply pleased when that message came this morning.”
“You’ve been kinder to me than I deserved,” she said; and I more than half agreed with her. How, with his eyes before her, could she fail to understand? Perhaps she did understand—I was never sure.
“In the first place, then, Miss Croydon,” he went on, in a different tone, “how did your father succeed in getting your sister away from Tremaine?”
“They had gone to Paris,” she answered, “and in two or three days, Edith had awakened from her dream—she saw something in the man which terrified her, and she wrote a pitiful letter to father, who went over to Paris at once, and finally succeeded in buying the man off. Father paid him fifty thousand francs, I believe—perhaps it was the fact that he knew he was not really Edith’s husband—that he himself had committed a crime—which made him take it. He agreed to leave the country, and in the following December he wrote father that he was about to sail for Martinique in a ship called the Centaur. He said he intended to buy a plantation at Martinique and make that his home. In February, we learned that the Centaur had been lost, with all on board. After eight years, it seemed certain that he was dead, and Edith felt free to marry again.”
“Was Mr. Delroy informed of this early indiscretion?”
“Certainly—and forgave it, as any good man would.”
“Pardon me for asking the question, Miss Croydon; but it was necessary. When was it you first learned that Tremaine was still alive?”
“One night nearly two months ago, Edith brought his letter to me. She was wild, distracted, ready to kill herself—that is what I have feared every day since. She loves Mr. Delroy, Mr. Godfrey; and yet she believed herself the wife of another man. He demanded that she meet him in that apartment house. I knew she could not bear such a meeting, and yet he must be seen. I offered to go in her stead; I had some wild idea of appealing to his better nature, of persuading him”
She stopped, silenced by her own emotion.
“That, of course, would not have altered the fact that your sister was his wife,” observed Godfrey.
“No; that was the terrible part of it; nothing could alter that. There must, of course, be a separation; but we thought we would solve that problem after we had settled the other. So I went. He opened the door for me. I had never seen him, and I confess his appearance and manner were not at all what I expected. He did not look in the least like a scoundrel, nor did he act like one. He listened to me with attention and seeming respect. He even appeared moved. Oh, I know now what a hypocrite he was; I know that he was laughing at me; that he was planning something deeper, more villainous. I had brought twelve hundred dollars with me,—all that we could gather together at the moment,—and I pressed it upon him, urging him to take it and go away and we would send him more. He pretended to refuse the money, to protest that that was not in the least what he wanted, but I compelled him to take it. And just as I was hoping that I had prevailed with him, the door of the bedroom opened and a horrible drunken man staggered out.
“‘Well, Vic,’ he cried, ‘so this is th’ gal, is it? She’s a likely piece. I wouldn’t give her up, Vic, no, not fer ten thousand’
“‘Go back to bed, you drunken brute!’ cried Tremaine, and took him roughly by the arm.
“But the other shook him off.
“‘Don’t lay your hands on me, Vic!’ he cried. ‘Don’t dare lay your hands on me!’
“I saw a very devil spring into Tremaine’s face. He looked about him for some weapon, and picked up a piece of pipe that lay beside the radiator. Thompson saw the action and lurched heavily toward him.
“‘Goin’ t’ use that on me, Vic?’ he asked. ‘You’d better try it,’ and he made a pass at Tremaine and tried to snatch the pipe away. ‘You try it on an’ I’ll blow your game like I did once before down at Sydney.’
“He struck at Tremaine again, but the latter sprang away and in an instant had brought the pipe down upon his head. Thompson fell like a log; then that fiendish look flashed into Tremaine’s face a second time; he snatched out a revolver—I dimly understood what was coming—indeed, I had my own revolver in my hand—and I fired at him; but my shot went wild, while his”
She stopped and buried her face in her hands, overcome for the moment by the terrible spectacle her words had evoked.
She controlled herself by an effort; took down her hands…
“He put his pistol away and stepped over very close to me.”
“‘Miss Croydon,’ he said rapidly, ‘it will be well for you to say you did not know me. I have committed no crime—he was the aggressor—what I did was done in self-defence. One thing more—your sister has nothing to fear from me—I shall never bother her again—I promise you that.’
“He was gone in an instant and then the janitor came and you and the detectives.”
Godfrey nodded thoughtfully.
“That supplies the motive, Lester,” he said. “I have felt that my explanation of the crime was not quite adequate. But it was not only desire for revenge that urged Tremaine on—it was also the knowledge that Thompson knew of his first marriage and threatened, with a word, to wreck his plans a second time.”
“Yes,” I agreed, and sat silent, pondering the story.
“Why did you take the clippings, Miss Croydon?” asked Godfrey after a moment.
“From what you read of them, I suspected how vitally they concerned my sister. That was a secret, I felt, which must be kept at any hazard. It was done without consideration, on the spur of the moment, or I should never have had the courage to do it at all.”
“And why did you hide them under the carpet?”
She laughed outright—the load was lifted—she was fast becoming her usual self.
“I had a wild idea that you were going to search me. I saw that loose place in the carpet the instant I arose with the clippings in my hand. Once I had put them there, I had no chance at all to get them again.”
Godfrey nodded.
“You tried to get them the day after the inquest, didn’t you?”
“Yes; but the janitor was so afraid of me that he wouldn’t even let me go upstairs.”
“And there weren’t any papers?”
“No; that was a lie. I saw I must invent one—that I must offer some explanation of my presence there.”
“Did Tremaine keep his promise?”
“Not to bother my sister? Yes; he mentioned it again only to assure me that the past was dead—that he would never revive it.”
“But how could you admit his presence here?”
“How could we prevent it? It was Mr. Delroy who brought him. We weren’t strong enough to tell him the whole story.”
“You mean you told him part of it?”
“There has been a virtual separation ever since Mr. Tremaine appeared.”
Godfrey paused reflectively.
“Why were you so agitated,” he continued finally, “when you were asked to identify Jimmy the Dude at the inquest?”
“Because I did identify him.”
“You did?”
“Yes—as the man I had seen talking to the janitor in the lower hall. Let me explain, Mr. Godfrey. When I was asked suddenly for a description of the murderer, I was taken aback; I endeavoured to think, to collect myself—and I remembered the man I had passed in the hall. Without stopping to consider—wishing only to disarm suspicion—I described him roughly as I remembered him. When I was confronted with him at the inquest next day, I instantly realised what I had done—I had implicated an innocent man—and it turned me a little faint for a moment.”
“Had you ever met him?”
“Met him?” she repeated in surprise. “Why, no.”
“But he seemed to know you.”
“Oh!” and she laughed again. “I had a letter from him next day—a letter filled with gratitude—touching even. It seems that my sister and I had helped his family—a mother and sister—without knowing it, while he was away”
“At Sing-Sing—he’s the most expert burglar in New York, but he’s got his good points, too—witness his taking Thompson home that night.”
“Yes—he wanted to do anything he could to help me. I intend to look up Jimmy.”
“Do—if you can reform him, the New York police force will be mighty grateful.”
“I’m going to try,” she said, and I rather envied Jimmy.
Godfrey leaned back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction.
“I think that clears up that affair pretty well,” he said; “and that brings us to the second and more serious one. And first, Miss Croydon, I want to ask you if you think it was just the right thing to let them march Jack Drysdale off to prison when a single word from you might have saved him?”
CHAPTER II
A Gathering of Threads
"FROM me?" repeated Miss Croydon blankly. “A single word from me? I do not understand you, Mr. Godfrey.”
“Do you mean to say,” demanded Godfrey with emphasis, “that you do not know where Mr. Drysdale was Monday night; that you were not yourself the cause of his leaving the house?”
She was staring at him with distended eyes.
“I the cause!” she repeated hoarsely, after a moment. “Mr. Godfrey, I will tell you something, of which I had determined never to speak. When he left the house that evening, he deliberately broke an appointment he had made with me—an appointment which he had prayed for. He had happened to hear Mr. Tremaine make certain proposals to me—in short,”—she hesitated, and then proceeded steadily, with raised head—“I may as well tell the whole truth. Since the evening of that first tragedy, Mr. Tremaine has been persecuting me with his attentions. At the time, I thought them merely insulting—I see now that he may have been in earnest.”
“I don’t in the least doubt that he was in earnest,” agreed Godfrey. “Mr. Drysdale, then, overheard him ask you to be his wife?”
“Yes—just that.”
“But he also heard you refuse, no doubt?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling and colouring a little; “he heard me refuse in the most positive way; but my refusal provoked Mr. Tremaine to an intemperance of language which Mr. Drysdale resented and which he thought I should have resented, too. He demanded that I explain to him Mr. Tremaine’s position, and I promised to do so on the very evening he—he stayed away from the house. His staying away offended me deeply.”
Godfrey had listened with intent eyes and a quick nod from time to time.
“There is only one point lacking,” he said. “Did Tremaine know of your intention to tell Drysdale the story?”
“Yes—he even charged me with that intention.”
“Ah—he had listened at a keyhole, probably.”
“He said that Mr. Drysdale himself had told him. I might add, Mr. Godfrey, that I met Mr. Drysdale and the officers in the hall that morning, as they were going away, and I implored him to tell them where he had been. He answered me with such insult and contempt that I thought he must be mad.”
“And no wonder! You were playing at cross-purposes. I presume, then, that it was not you who wrote Mr. Drysdale this note?” and he handed her the crumpled sheet of paper he had fished from Drysdale’s waste-basket.
She took it with trembling hand; already beginning to suspect, perhaps, what it contained.
“‘Be at the pergola at nine,’” she read. “‘If I am late, wait for me. G.’ I certainly never wrote any such note as that, Mr. Godfrey. Where did it come from?”
“Is it in your handwriting?”
“Why, yes,” she answered, looking at it more closely. “That is, it is something like. Oh! I begin to see!” she cried, and I saw her seized with a sudden convulsive shuddering.
“Yes,” said Godfrey, “it was a pretty plot. This note lured him from the house, and kept him away until the storm came up and he was forced to abandon the hope of meeting you. He concluded that you were playing with him—when he returned to the house, he found that you had spent the evening with Tremaine—afterwards, in his room, he did a number of violent and foolish things. Finally, he determined to go away; he started to pack his belongings—and then, in the hall, you, as he thought, added insult to injury by asking him to tell”
She stopped him with a wild gesture.
“Oh, I must see him!” she cried. “Something must be done”
“Something shall be done,” Godfrey assured her, rising. “The real culprit shall be in custody to-night.”
“The real culprit?” The words arrested her attention.
“Who but Tremaine?”
“Tremaine? But he was in the house—as you know, I talked with him for a long time.”
“In the same vein?”
She coloured a little at the tone. “Yes,” she answered, “You will, perhaps, think me weak, Mr. Godfrey; but despite his villainy, there was a fascination, a sort of brutal power, about the man, which it was very hard to resist. And then, I believed that Mr. Drysdale had deliberately broken his engagement with me. Otherwise, I should not have given Mr. Tremaine another opportunity to”
She did not attempt to finish the sentence—there was no need that she should. I have often wondered, since, what the end would have been had Fate not interfered—had Tremaine’s plan worked itself out as he intended. Remembering both of them—man and woman—I think she must have yielded in the end; submitted; gone with him out into the world to conquer it…
“There’s no questioning Tremaine’s fascination,” agreed Godfrey, “nor his ability; yet I fancy that in spite of his precautions we’ve got him fast in the net. That is all, I think.”
“One thing more, Mr. Godfrey,” she said; “do you think we’d better tell Mr. Delroy the story?”
“Yes,” answered Godfrey decidedly. “Tell him the whole story. That’s always the best way and the safest. Remember, your lack of frankness has already cost one human life. Your sister has incurred no guilt; she has committed no fault. Her husband will have nothing to forgive.”
“And the public?”
“The public? What has the public to do with it?”
“But I thought—you see—you”
“Oh, you thought I would write it up in the Record? I have no such intention, Miss Croydon—I shall let that first tragedy rest—this second one will be enough—and, after all, Tremaine has only one life for the law to take.”
“Pardon me,” she said quickly, holding out her hand. “I see I have offended you. You must forgive me.”
“Oh, I do,” he said, taking her hand and smiling into her eyes—allowing himself a moment’s reward. “Even a yellow journalist, Miss Croydon, has his reticences. That’s hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Not when one knows them,” she answered, and opened the door for us.
Thomas was waiting in the hall.
“Anything else, sir?” he asked.
“No,” said Godfrey. “We’ve finished here. Now let us have our trap.”
We stopped a moment in the library to say goodbye to Delroy. He came forward eagerly to meet us.
“Well?” he asked. “Can you clear Jack?”
“Yes,” said Godfrey, “we can. What’s more, we will.”
“Thank God!” and Delroy passed his hand across his forehead. “This whole thing has been a sort of terrible nightmare to me, Mr. Godfrey. I’m hoping that I may even yet wake up and find that it was all only a dream.”
Godfrey smiled a little bitterly.
“I’m afraid you won’t do that, Mr. Delroy,” he said; “but, at least, I believe you’ll find that, in the end, it will sweep a great unhappiness out of your life. And I’m sure that, with Mr. Lester’s help, I can clear Drysdale.”
Thomas came to tell us that our trap was waiting-, and Delroy went down the steps with us.
“I hope to have you here some time under more favourable circumstances,” he said, and shook us both warmly by the hand.
Evening had come, and the darkness deepened rapidly as we drove back along the road to Babylon.
“We can’t get a train till 8.42,” said Godfrey, “so we’ll have dinner at the hotel and then go around for a talk with our client. I think we have some news that will cheer him up.”
“It seemed to me,” I observed, “that it was not at all about his arrest that he was worrying.”
“It wasn’t,” agreed Godfrey. “That’s what I meant.”
The lights of Babylon gleamed out ahead, and a few minutes later we drew up before the hotel. As we entered the office, I saw the proprietor cast a quick glance at a little fat man, with a round face, who had been leaning against the cigar-stand, and who immediately came forward to meet us.
“I am Coroner Heffelbower,” he said, with an evident appreciation of his own importance. “I believe you are t’e gentlemen who represent Mr. Drysdale?”
“Mr. Lester, here, of Graham & Royce, will represent Mr. Drysdale,” explained Godfrey. “I am merely one of his friends.”
“The inquest, I believe, is set for to-morrow morning at ten o’clock?” I asked.
“Yes, sir; t’ough we shall hardly get to t’e evidence before afternoon. T’e morning will be spent in looking ofer t’e scene of t’e crime.”
“I understand,” said Godfrey, with studied artlessness, “that you have found the missing necklace.”
The coroner flushed a little; evidently that was a sore subject.
“No, sir,” he answered, “we haven’t found it. I haf about come to t’e conclusion t’at Drysdale t’rew it into t’e pay.”
“But,” I objected, “he’d hardly have committed a murder in order to gain possession of it, only to throw it away!”
“He would, if my t’eory iss right, sir,” returned the coroner, with some spirit.
“What is your theory?” I asked.
“No matter; no matter,” and he was fairly bloated with self-importance. “You will see to-morrow.”
Godfrey was looking at him, his eyes alight with mirth.
“I see,” he broke in. “Accept my compliments, Mr. Heffelbower. It is the only theory which fits the case. Don’t you understand, Lester? Here’s a young man of wealth, who deliberately goes out and kills a man, steals a necklace and throws it into the ocean. He attempts to establish no alibi; he refuses to answer any questions; after the murder he rages around in his room and breaks things; he insults the girl he’s engaged to; quarrels with his best friend. Why, it’s as plain as day! A man who would behave like that must be”
“Crazy!” cried the coroner, beaming with satisfaction. “I could not haf put t’e case petter myself, sir!”
And Godfrey gravely bowed his thanks at the compliment.
CHAPTER III
Godfrey and I are "de Trop"
HEFFELBOWER insisted that we join him in an appetiser; he had evidently jumped to the conclusion that Godfrey was a famous New York detective, and he gazed at him with respect and a little awe. He wanted to discuss again all the details of the tragedy, but we got rid of him, after a while, and went in to dinner. Then we started toward the jail for a final talk with Drysdale. Another jailer had come on duty, but he made no difficulty about admitting us.
“Well?” asked the prisoner, as soon as we were alone.
“Oh,” said Godfrey, regarding him with a good-humoured smile, “you won’t be electrocuted this time—though I must say you deserve it!”
“What!” cried Drysdale, colouring suddenly. “You don’t believe”
“That you killed Graham? Oh, no; but you’ve made an unmitigated ass of yourself, my friend. Did you have a pleasant time, Monday night, kicking your heels by the hour together, out at the pergola?”
Drysdale flushed again, but this time it was with anger.
“Oh, so she told you, did she?” he asked between his teeth. “I dare say you had a good laugh together over it!”
“Jack,” said Godfrey calmly, “I protest you are becoming more and more asinine! Haven’t you sense enough to see that that note—by the way, how was it delivered to you?”
“I found it on my dressing table when I came back from New York Monday evening. What are you driving at, Godfrey? If you’ve discovered anything, for God’s sake, tell me straight out!”
“I’ve discovered an unusually large consignment of humble pie awaiting your consumption. You don’t deserve a magnificent girl like that, Jack; I swear you don’t. Do you remember your last words to her?”
“Yes,” answered Drysdale, with a sudden flushing of the cheeks. “And she deserved them. She got me out of the house and spent the evening with Tremaine. It was an indirect way of telling me that she was tired of me. I’d suspected it before!”
Godfrey looked at him pityingly.
“Really, Jack,” he said, “I’m half inclined to think the coroner’s right in his theory, after all.”
“What is his theory?”
“He thinks you’re crazy.”
Drysdale laughed a little mirthless laugh.
“Perhaps he’s right,” he said.
“You’ll be sure of it in a few minutes. It’s inconceivable that any man in his right mind should suspect a girl like Miss Croydon of such a thing.”
Drysdale turned to him with eyes bright with emotion.
“See here, Jim,” he said; “you’ve had your fun; you’ve tormented me long enough. Do you mean that Miss Croydon didn’t write the note?”
“I mean just that.”
“Then who did?”
“Tremaine!”
The word brought Drysdale to his feet like a thunder-clap.
“Do you mean,” he demanded, gripping his hands tight behind him, “that Tremaine wrote the note and placed it in my room in order to get me out of the house?”
“I do.”
“And that Miss Croydon knew nothing about it?”
“Not a thing—she was waiting for you in the house. She thought you’d deliberately broken an appointment you’d made with her.”
Drysdale ground his teeth together and struck himself a savage blow in the chest.
“Good God!” he groaned. “What a fool! What a perfect, muckle-headed fool!”
“Go on,” laughed Godfrey. “Do it again—sackcloth and ashes! You deserve it all!”
“Deserve it! Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?”
“I shouldn’t if I were in her place,” Godfrey assured him. “I’d think myself well rid of you. I shouldn’t want to marry an idiot.”
Drysdale cursed dismally to himself.
“Still,” Godfrey added, “there’s no accounting for the whims of women—there’s no telling what they’ll do. Maybe, after this, you’ll come nearer appreciating her as she deserves.”
“Appreciating her!”
“You don’t seem to have any curiosity as to how we’re going to save that precious neck of yours.” Godfrey observed.
“Oh, damn my neck! What do I care! Godfrey, I’ve got to see her right away—I’ve got to get down on my knees-crawl in the dust”
“That’s it!” nodded Godfrey approvingly. “You’ve caught the idea. You ought to feel like an insect—a particularly small one. But I hardly believe the jailer will release you on your own recognisance. Maybe, to-morrow after the inquest, if everything goes well”
“Oh, to-morrow be hanged! I’ve got to see her right away, Jim! Isn’t there any way?”
He was pacing furiously up and down the cell, biting his nails, tearing his hair. Could Tremaine have seen him, then, he might have modified his estimate of him.
“There’s no way,” said Godfrey, “unless Miss Croydon herself should commit the inconceivable folly—hello, who’s that?”
The outer door had been flung crashing back; there came a rush of feet down the corridor, a swish of skirts…
“Grace!”
It was Drysdale’s voice and he stood there like a man struck suddenly to stone.
And she? I turned a little giddy as I looked at her—at the shining eyes—at the quivering, smiling lips…
Godfrey had sprung instantly to his feet.
“Come, Lester;” he said, in a voice very, gentle, as the jailer opened the cell door, “we must catch our train; we’ve business in New York.”
Perhaps it was only my fancy that his step was not wholly steady as he went before me down the corridor.
CHAPTER IV
The Store on Monday Night
NOT until the regular click-click of the wheels told me that we were well under way did I open my mind to Godfrey; then I spoke with what I deemed a necessary frankness.
“My dear Godfrey,” I began, “I’ve watched you all day, smelling bottles, examining scratches, trying to read faint ink-marks on a blotter, puzzling over a broken cane, and doing various other eccentric things from which you seemed to draw conclusions utterly invisible to me. I’ve heard you assure both Drysdale and Miss Croydon that the former will be cleared of suspicion at to-morrow’s inquest, and that the real culprit will be pointed out. You’ll pardon me if I confess to some curiosity as to how all this is to be accomplished.”
“Did you see her face as she came through that door, Lester?” he asked, staring absently at the seat in front of us. “I tell you, it warmed the heart of even an old reprobate like me! And to think that we did it!” he added. “To think that we did it!”
“You did it,” I corrected. “I was in the chorus to-day—you had the centre of the stage.”
“But you don’t mind, Lester? I couldn’t help it, you know.”
“Of course you couldn’t—that’s where you belong. But now that the curtain’s down and we’re alone together with plenty of time to talk, I’d like to understand”
“And you shall—down to the minutest detail. Let’s see—this is the smoker, isn’t it? Well, suppose we light up—I can think more clearly when I’m smoking.”
“All right; fire away,” I said, as soon as the cigars were going.
“Well,” began Godfrey; “as I pointed out to you this morning, for good and sufficient reasons, I started out in this investigation with the assumption of Tremaine’s guilt.”
“Of course,” I observed, “you know it is the duty of every jury to start out with exactly the contrary assumption.”
“Certainly I know that; but a detective has to work with some definite end in view, or he never gets anywhere. In other words, a detective, after carefully studying the details of any crime, must form a theory concerning it, and must work along that theory. As soon as he discovers any fact that fails to fit with his theory, he must modify it or form another; and he must keep on doing this until he finds the theory which agrees with all the facts—not all but one or two, but with every one. A good many detectives fall into the mistake of being satisfied with the theory which fits most of the facts—a serious error, for the right theory must, of course, inevitably, fit them all. That’s the scientific method and the only safe one. When a detective hits upon a theory which fits all the known facts, he’s got as much right to assume it’s true as an astronomer has or a physicist, who builds up the universe in just the same way.”
“But that’s a difficult thing to do,” I remarked, “to find a theory that fits all the facts.”
“Exceedingly difficult sometimes,” assented my companion, “because the facts often appear to be entirely contradictory. Really, facts are never contradictory—truth is always truth—the trouble is we can’t always tell what is fact and what is fiction. The hardest part of a detective’s work is to sift the wheat from the chaff—to get at the meaty, essential facts.
“Well, as you know, I started out with the theory of Tremaine’s guilt. More than that, I was morally certain that he was guilty, knowing what I knew of the man. And first of all, it was evident to me that no criminal as careful as he is would run the risk of going through that boathouse and committing a murder on the pier outside with young Graham sleeping on a cot a few feet away. I therefore deduced this bottle. Smell of it.”
He uncorked it and held it under my nose.
“Chloroform!” I said.
“Precisely,” and he corked it carefully and returned it to his pocket. “The boy’s story helped me to arrive at it. He had been awakened by that violent thunder-clap, but for the first moment he had found himself unable to move—dizzy, as he explained it.”
“But how did you know where to look for it?” I asked.
“Well, I knew that no experienced criminal would keep about him any such important evidence as a bottle that had contained chloroform. The odour clings to it for a long time. I committed the mistake, at first, of supposing that he had hidden it in the boathouse. I should have known better. Naturally he would throw it into the bay. There was a single chance against me. If he had thrown it in uncorked, it would probably have sunk. That was a point he didn’t think of, and by just that much he fell below perfection. I think he probably administered the chloroform by pouring it upon one corner of the sheet and throwing it over young Graham’s face. No doubt the odour would have been perceptible next morning had anyone thought to look for it. There was only one point in the whole case,” he added thoughtfully, “that was utterly at variance with my theory—and it worried me badly for a time.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“That was the story the jailer told us—that Miss Croydon believed Drysdale guilty. But you have seen how naturally that was explained. I knew then, in that instant, that I was on the right track—that nothing could defeat me. But let us go back to the beginning—and I’d like you to point out any flaws you see in the story.”
“Very well,” I said, and settled back in the seat to listen.
“Tremaine had two very powerful motives for the commission of this crime,” began Godfrey; “he needed money and could take no more from Miss Croydon, since he was trying seriously to win her affection; he was determined to get Drysdale out of the way under circumstances as discreditable as possible, confident that, in that case, he would himself win Miss Croydon. Which,” he added, in a thoughtful aside, “from what you’ve told me of him, I don’t think it all impossible.”
“Not in the least,” I agreed. “I believe Tremaine could win any woman he really set his heart on.”
“At any rate, he learns of Drysdale’s jealousy and of Miss Croydon’s promise to explain things. He sees that at any hazard he must prevent that explanation. Monday morning, he comes to town with Delroy, and the latter tells him that he intends giving the necklace the salt-water treatment. You’ll remember it was Tremaine who originally proposed this, though he could scarcely at that time have foreseen what would come of it.”
“Mere chance,” I nodded.
“Well, Tremaine takes the early train back to Edgemere and lays his plans. He writes the note”
“But you really haven’t any evidence that he did,” I objected.
For answer Godfrey took from his pocket the blotter he had found in Tremaine’s room.
“I told you that these letters aren’t in Tremaine’s hand,” he said; “but if you’ll compare them with the note, you’ll see how nearly they resemble Miss Croydon’s. Again, they are only capital B’s, G’s, and I’s, which are the only capitals used in the note. That’s pretty good circumstantial evidence. Tremaine, of course, burnt the piece of paper he practiced on; but he didn’t think to burn this blotter. It was only the freshest line at the bottom of the paper that left these marks.”
“But did Tremaine have a sample of Miss Croydon’s writing?”
“There’s no reason to think he didn’t have; but if he didn’t, he could no doubt have found plenty of samples among Drysdale’s things. He’s probably an adept at forgery as well as at most other branches of crime.”
“All right; go ahead,” I said.
“Tremaine writes the note and leaves it in Drysdale’s room,” continued Godfrey. “Then he opens the trunk and secures the revolver. Perhaps he knew the revolver was there and perhaps he didn’t. If he hadn’t found it, he’d probably have taken something else belonging to Drysdale for a weapon.
“Having secured the revolver, he returns to his room by way of the balcony. What passed in the early part of the evening you already know. Drysdale goes to keep the rendezvous at the pergola, starting early, because the house, with Tremaine in it, has become unbearable to him. He stops for a chat with Graham, which the latter’s son overhears, and then goes on to the pergola, which is quite at the other end of the grounds from the boathouse.
“Meanwhile, Tremaine has spent the early part of the evening talking with Delroy and Miss Croydon. At last he goes to his room on the pretence of writing letters, gets the revolver, lets himself down by the vine, and starts for the pier. He enters the boathouse softly, feels his way to the cot, whose position he has already seen, and carefully administers the chloroform. The dose was no doubt nicely calculated and the boy would probably have awakened naturally in a few hours.
“That done, Tremaine walks boldly out upon the pier. Old Graham sees him; perhaps challenges him; but of course allows him to approach as soon as he recognises him. They talk together for a moment; then Tremaine, swift as lightning, knocks the other down. Graham probably fell without crying out. I fancy I can see Tremaine pausing to make sure his victim is dead before he goes on to the end of the pier to get the necklace.”
I shivered; I could see him, too, bending over in the darkness, with a horrible calmness…
“That throwing of the pistol into the boat,” continued Godfrey, “was one of those flashes of inspiration which come to a man sometimes. It was superb! It proves that our friend is really an artist. Not one man in a thousand would have thought of it. He must have laughed with sheer satisfaction when he heard it clatter safely into the boat.”
He paused for a moment to think of it, to turn it over, to taste it.
“Well,” he continued, at last, “he secures the necklace, throws away the bottle, and probably goes down to the water’s edge to wash his hands.”
“Did he take the necklace with him to the house?” I asked.
“No,” said Godfrey decidedly. “There was no reason whatever for him to run that risk. He had doubtless picked out a safe hiding-place for it in the afternoon. The necklace once deposited there, he hurries back to the house, climbs up to the balcony, and re-enters his room. He assures himself that there are no bloodstains on him anywhere, then he moves his table near the window and sits down to wait for Drysdale’s return.
“As soon as he hears him enter his room, he gathers up the letters which he had, of course, written during the afternoon, and goes downstairs. And it is here that he makes his most serious mistake. He fancies, perhaps, that he is to have only the country police to deal with—only your Heffelbowers—that he must clinch the nail, that he cannot make the evidence against his victim too strong. So, when he places his letters in the bag on the hall-rack, he also tears off the top button of Drysdale’s rain-coat.
“He returns to the hall, talks with Delroy; the storm comes up and young Graham rushes in. They run down to the pier, kneel beside the body, try to discover signs of life—and Tremaine adroitly shuts the button within the dead man’s hand. That, my dear Lester, is, I fancy, the whole story.”
I smoked on for a moment in silence, turning it over in my mind with a certain sense of disappointment.
“It may be true,” I said. “It seems to hold together. But, after all, there isn’t a bit of positive evidence in it. How are we to convince a jury that Tremaine really did all these things?”
Godfrey blew a great smoke ring out over the seat in front of us.
“I agree,” he said, “that we haven’t as yet any direct evidence against Tremaine; it may be that this whole structure will fall to pieces about my ears. But I don’t believe it. I believe, within an hour, we’ll be in possession of the one piece of positive indisputable evidence that will outweigh all the rest.”
“What is that?” I asked.
He turned to me with that bright light in his eyes that I had seen there once or twice before.
“The necklace,” he answered.
CHAPTER V
A Horror in the Dark
THE necklace; of course, the necklace!
“But then,” I objected after a moment, “if your theory’s correct, we’re going right away from the necklace. You said that Tremaine had hidden it at Edgemere.”
“Yes; but he’s no such fool as to come away and leave it hidden there. He’s not the man to make the mistake Miss Croydon made—to conceal a thing in a place where he can’t get it again without exciting suspicion. No, no; he took the necklace with him to New York; he ran no risk in doing that; everything had happened just as he hoped it would. There was absolutely no suspicion against him.”
“He may have hidden it somewhere else in the meantime,” I observed.
“Yes, he may have done that,” admitted Godfrey; “and yet, why should he? He has no reason to believe that any suspicion attaches to him. He’ll naturally wish to keep the pearls by him until he has a chance to sell them, one by one. He can’t do that yet—he’ll probably arrange a trip to Europe to get rid of them. If the necklace is concealed at all, it’s concealed somewhere in his rooms. And if it’s there, we’ll find it!”
“Long Island City!” yelled the guard, slamming open the door. “Change for New York!”
We took the Thirty-fourth Street ferry, and ten minutes later were in a cab hurrying downtown.
“We’ll get Simmonds first,” said Godfrey. “I’ve a sort of reciprocity treaty with him. Besides, we’ve got to have an officer to make the arrest. Here we are.”
He jumped out, paid the driver, and hastened up the steps, I after him. As we entered the room, I saw that a clock registered half-past ten.
“Hello, Simmonds,” said Godfrey, to a grizzled, stockily built man, who had sprung to his feet as we entered. “All alone?”
“Yes—the other boys have turned in.”
“That’s good—I’ve got something big for you.”
Simmonds’s face flushed with sudden emotion.
“Really?” he stammered. “Have you really?”
“The biggest catch that’s been made in many a day. But remember our agreement—yours the glory, mine the scoop. Not a word of this to anybody before daybreak.”
“Of course not; of course not,” assented Simmonds, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “What is it?”
“You’ve read about that murder and robbery at the Delroy place near Babylon?”
“Yes, certainly; they’ve got the murderer in jail down there.”
“No, they haven’t,” retorted Godfrey sharply. “We’re going to have him in jail here inside of twenty minutes.”
Simmonds’s eyes began to glisten.
“That would be a big thing,” he said. “Are you sure of the man?”
“Dead sure; but see here, Simmonds, I haven’t time to tell you the whole story now; only I assure you, on my word, that I’ve evidence against the man which will convict him of one murder and perhaps of two. Is that enough?”
“Yes,” said Simmonds instantly, and he opened a drawer, from which he took a pistol and a pair of handcuffs. “All right,” he added, turning back to us.
“That’s good! Better have a lantern, too, though.”
“Think so?”
He took down a little dark lantern, lighted it, tested it, and put it in his pocket.
“Now I’m ready. Have we far to go?”
“Oh, no; just across the street.”
Simmonds started with astonishment “You don’t mean the Marathon!” he said.
“Just that.”
“But who is it we’re going after?”
“A fellow named Tremaine.”
“Tremaine!” Simmonds’s face grew blanker and blanker. “Why, I know him; he’s been in here to see me. He doesn’t seem at all the kind of fellow who would”
“So ho!” cried Godfrey. “It was you who told him about the clippings!”
Simmonds coloured to the eyes.
“Who told you that?” he stammered.
“No matter; it didn’t do any harm; played right into our hands, in fact. But you didn’t show your usual perspicacity there, Simmonds. That fellow is the most remarkable scoundrel I’ve ever run across—perhaps it’s just as well I never met him, or he’d have hypnotised me, too. Come along.”
Simmonds followed meekly. Evidently he felt his indiscretion deeply; though I didn’t think him greatly to blame. Who, to look at him, would have conceived any suspicion of Tremaine? Even yet, I found it difficult to believe him guilty of any crime; this chain which Godfrey had so laboriously forged about him-would it really hold-was it really strong in every link? Or was there some fatal weakness in it, some unsuspected flaw…
Higgins was just shutting the inner doors. He recognized Simmonds at once.
“Hello,” he said; “what’s up now? No more murders, I hope?”
“Do you know whether or not Mr. Tremaine is in his rooms?” asked Godfrey.
“Yes, sir; he went up about an hour ago.”
“You have a key to his door?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We want you to go up with us and open the door.”
“Oh, come!” protested Higgins. “That’s going it pretty strong. What’s Mr. Tremaine done?”
“No matter. There’s no use holding off, Higgins. Simmonds here can place you under arrest and force you to go.”
“Well, see here,” said Higgins, turning a little pale, “if you break in on him like that, there’s apt t’ be some bullets flyin’ around—he’s hot-headed, he is! I wish you’d excuse me. Here’s the key—why can’t you open th’ door yourself?”
“That ’ll do,” assented Godfrey, and took the key. “Now, you stay down here.”
“No fear,” said Higgins promptly. “Though,” he added gloomily, “mebbe I’d better telephone fer some ambulances.”
We went softly up the stair and down the dimly lighted corridor to Tremaine’s door. We could see by the transom that the room was dark.
“I want to surprise him,” whispered Godfrey. “If he has two or three minutes’ warning, he may be able to get rid of some evidence. He’s probably in bed and we must get to the bedroom door without his hearing us. How does the bedroom door lie, Lester, with reference to this one?”
“Straight ahead,” I answered hoarsely.
“That’s good; are you ready?”
“Yes,” said Simmonds, and cocked his revolver.
As for me, I grasped my stick more firmly, glad that it was a stout one.
“All right,” said Godfrey, and he threw back the bolt and opened the door.
The room was in absolute darkness, save for the dim stream of light from the hall. We entered cautiously, Godfrey in the lead.
“Have your lantern ready, Simmonds,” he whispered, and I caught the odour of heated metal as Simmonds obeyed the order.
Two, three, four steps we advanced, feeling our way—then I heard a startled cry from Godfrey—an instant’s pause…
“Quick, Simmonds, quick!” he cried, in a stifled voice. “The lantern!”
Instantly a brilliant band of light shot across the room, wavered, wagged to and fro—then settled upon Godfrey bending above some shapeless object on the floor.
“What is it?” I cried, running to him, shivering with horror.
“It’s Tremaine,” and he knelt on the floor and stripped back the clothing from the breast “He’s dead,” he added after a moment.
“Dead? But why? How?”
He was in pajamas—I can see them yet—striped blue and white…
Then I heard Godfrey’s voice again.
“My God!” he was saying, with an accent of utter horror. “My God! Bring the light closer, Simmonds!”
I looked down, too. The face was in bright relief now—but was it Tremaine? Could it be Tremaine? That staring, distorted thing, with wide-open mouth? Then my eyes fell on the hand, clasped across the breast…
“What is it?” I asked again, inarticulately, frozen with dread. “What has happened?”
I saw Godfrey stand erect with a sudden movement of loathing.
“It’s the fer-de-lance!” he said hoarsely. “He’s been bitten by it. And it’s still loose in the room somewhere!”
CHAPTER VI
Vengeance
IT strikes a chill through me, even yet, to recall the awful horror of that instant. The fer-de-lance—death in a few heartbeats, and such a death!—a death that melts a man into an abomination! For a moment, none of us dared move, scarcely dared breathe, and I saw the band of light from Simmonds’s lantern waving uncertainly across the floor, the walls, the ceiling—evidently poor Simmonds did not understand the exact nature of the danger, but only that it was a terrible one. I had a mad impulse to jump, shrieking, for the door, and should probably have done it had that quivering silence endured a moment longer.
“Simmonds, give me your lantern,” said Godfrey, with an admirable calmness. “Lester, have your cane ready.”
He threw a broad band of light upon the carpet, and keeping carefully within this path, approached the door, felt for the electric button, and switched on the lights.
Half-blinded for an instant, we stood staring at each other, at the floor…
“For God’s sake,” gasped Simmonds, mopping the sweat from his face, “what is it?”
“It’s a snake,” said Godfrey tersely. “The deadliest in the world. If you don’t believe me, look yonder,” and he pointed to the huddled mass on the floor.
I did not look; I was afraid to; I had already seen too much. I was grateful when Godfrey jerked down a curtain and threw it over the body. Then he gave Simmonds the lantern and closed the door, which we had left open when we entered.
“Now,” he continued sharply, “there’s no use in giving way to our nerves. We’re in no danger, but that snake is hid around here somewhere and the first thing for us to do is to find it. Were there two snakes, Lester?”
“No,” I answered, as articulately as I could. “I think not; I never saw but one.”
“I thought you said Cecily took that one with her.”
“So she did—wait; I didn’t see it. She had a cover over the cage.”
Godfrey’s face paled suddenly.
“Good God!” he murmured.
A giddiness seized me; I clutched at a chair for support.
It had been no accident; she had left Fê-Fê behind to avenge her—and what a vengeance! She had not laughed and forgotten!
Then, in a flash, I understood that last strange scene—the change in Cecily, as she stood watching us from the deck of the receding boat, the pressing against the rail, the frantic effort to shout a message to Tremaine—she had relented, she did not wish to kill him, she loved him yet! But of that warning he had caught only a single word…
“The bed!” I cried. “The bed!”
“Right!” agreed Godfrey incisively, and walked to the bedroom door. In an instant, the inner room was ablaze with light. He armed himself with one of Tremaine’s canes, and together we approached the bed.
“Ready, now,” he said, and with a sudden movement, stripped back the covers. But there was nothing under them.
“The pillow, perhaps,” he said, and turned it over.
There was a quick movement, a soft hissing, a vicious head raised itself, two eyes of orange fire glared at us…
I heard the swish of Godfrey’s cane, and the head fell. Fê-Fê would work no more evil.
And then, as I looked more closely at the coils, I perceived something else there-something bright, iridescent, glowing…
Godfrey lifted the mangled body with the end of his cane and threw it into the middle of the bed. Then he bent over and picked up—the necklace!
“I was sure we should find it here,” he said. “But look at it—isn’t it beautiful?”
It was more than that—it was superb. Not dead-white, now, but warm, full of life… was it the salt bath, or was it that the cloud had been removed forever from its owner’s life? As I looked at it, there seemed to be something unearthly in its beauty—it seemed to be rejoicing!
“The snake bit him, probably,” added Godfrey thoughtfully, “as he thrust the necklace under the pillow. It was a fitting punishment.”
“It was greater than he deserved,” I protested hoarsely. “He was not the man to meet a death like that.”
“A man! He was a vampire!” said Godfrey sternly. “He lived on the lives of others. Don’t let your sentimentalism blind you, Lester.”
“Oh, you didn’t know him!” I cried. A hot resentment of fate was sweeping over me; I realised that, down at the bottom of my heart, I had never really believed in Tremaine’s guilt—even now, I hardly believed in it!
Godfrey turned to Simmonds, who stood contemplating the scene with staring eyes, his lantern still open in his hand.
“It’s hard luck, Simmonds,” he said. “You’re not going to get the glory, after all. But who could have foreseen a thing like this?”
Simmonds opened his mouth and shut it again, without uttering a sound.
“You’d better notify the coroner,” continued Godfrey, “and, I suppose, to be strictly regular, I’ll have to turn this necklace over to you for the night. Guard it well, Simmonds; it’s worth a hundred thousand dollars.”
“What!” stammered Simmonds. “Is it the—the—the”
“Yes, it’s the Delroy necklace. You’ll have to go with us to Babylon in the morning, to attend the inquest. I fancy there’ll be something of a sensation when we produce the necklace there—eh, Lester?” and he laughed a grim little laugh of anticipatory triumph.
Then he glanced at his watch.
“I must be going,” he said. “I’ve got to fire this story down to the office. What a scoop it will be! Till to-morrow, gentlemen.”
I heard his footsteps die out along the hall; then a sudden horror of the place seized me; a deadly loathing; and I groped my way blindly from the room.
THE END
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