CHAPTER IV THE NAIL
“My God!” Farrell exclaimed, stepping closer and pushing aside the grayhair, thus clearly revealing the awful truth.
A flat-headed nail, the head rather more than a quarter of an inch indiameter, had been driven into the skull with such force that it showedmerely as a metal disk. Having been hidden by the dead man’s hair, it hadremained unnoticed until Moore’s quick eyes espied it.
Farrell picked at it a little, but it was far too firmly fastened to bemoved by his fingers.
“What shall we do?” the Inspector asked, helplessly. “Shall we try to getDoctor Rogers back?”
“No,” returned the Coroner, “he’s just starting on a long trip. Let himgo. He could do nothing and it would be a pity to spoil his journey. Hisdiagnosis of apoplexy was most natural in the circumstances, for thesymptoms are the same. I, too, thought death was the result of anapoplectic stroke. But now we know it is black murder, the case comesdirectly within my jurisdiction, and there’s no occasion to recall DoctorRogers.”
“You’re right,” Ames assented, “but who could have done this fearfulthing? I can hardly believe a human being capable of such a horror! Mr.Moore, you simply must take up this case. It ought to be a problem afteryour own heart.”
Every word the man uttered made me dislike him more. To refer to thisterrible tragedy as a problem after Moore’s own heart seemed to me toindicate a mind callous and almost ghoulish in its type.
I knew Kee well enough to feel sure that he would investigate the murder,but not at the behest of Harper Ames.
He only acknowledged Ames’s speech by a noncommittal nod and turned toDetective March.
“We have our work cut out for us,” he said, very gravely. “I have neverseen a stranger case. The murderer must have been a man of brute passionsand brute strength. That nail is almost imbedded in the bone, and, Ifancy, needed more than one blow of the hammer that drove it in. Butfirst, as to the doors and windows. You tell me they were locked thismorning?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Griscom, the butler, as Moore looked at him.
He was a smallish man, bald and with what are sometimes called pop-eyes.He stared in a frightened manner, but he controlled his voice as he wenton to tell his story.
“Yes, sir, I brought the master’s tea at nine o’clock, as always. Thedoor was locked——”
“Is it usually locked in the morning?” Moore interrupted.
“Sometimes, not always. When it is locked, I knock and Mr. Tracy wouldget up and open the door. If unlocked, I walked right in.”
“And this morning it was locked, and the key in the lock on the inside?”
“Yes, sir. So I knocked, but when there was no answer, I got scared——”
“Why were you scared?”
“Because Doctor Rogers had often told me that Mr. Tracy was in danger ofan apoplectic stroke, and that I must do anything I could to make him eatless and take more exercise. I’ve been with the master a long time, sir,and I had the privilege of a bit of talk with him now and then. So I didtry to persuade him to obey the doctor’s orders, and he would laugh andpromise to do so. But he forgot it as soon as he saw some dish he wasfond of, and he’d eat his fill of it.”
“Go on, Griscom,” Moore said, “what happened next?”
“I went to Mr. Everett——”
“Yes, he went to Everett,” broke in the aggrieved voice of Harper Ames.“Why did he do that, instead of coming to me, I’d like to know!”
“Go on,” Moore instructed the butler.
“I went to Mr. Everett, sir, he was up and dressed, and he said, at once,to get Louis—that’s the chauffeur—and tell him to bring some tools, I didthat, and Louis first pushed the key out of the lock, and then pokedaround with a wire until he got the door open. Then we came in——”
“Who came in?”
“Mr. Everett and Mr. Ames and me, sir. And Mrs. Fenn—she’s thehousekeeper—she saw Louis running upstairs, so she came, too.”
“And you saw——?”
“Mr. Tracy, just as he was when you first saw him, sir. Just as he isnow, except for the things Doctor Rogers chucked out.”
“Is that door, the one that was locked, the entrance to the whole suite?”
“Yes, sir, that door is the only one connecting these rooms with thehouse.”
“I see. Now what about the windows?”
“They haven’t been touched, sir.”
Kee Moore turned his attention to the windows. There were many of them.The suite of Sampson Tracy’s was a rectangular wing, built out from themain house, and having windows on three sides. But all of these windowsoverlooked the deep, black waters of the Sunless Sea. It had been thewhim of the man to have his quarters thus, to be surrounded on all sidesby the water of the lake that he loved, and he usually had all thewindows wide open, doubtless enjoying the lake breezes that playedthrough the rooms, and listening to the birds, whose notes broke thestillness of the night.
“What is below these rooms?” Moore asked.
“The big ballroom, sir. Nothing else.”
After scrutinizing every window in the bedroom, dressing room, bathroomand sitting room, Moore said, slowly: “These windows seem to me to beinaccessible from below.”
It was characteristic of the man that he didn’t say they wereinaccessible but merely that they seemed so to him.
As they certainly did to the rest of us. We all looked out, and in everyinstance, the sheer drop to the lake was about fifteen or more feet. Theouter walls of marble presented no foothold for even the most daring ofclimbers. They were smooth, plain, and absolutely unscalable.
“It is certain no one entered by the windows,” Moore said, at last,having looked out of every one. “I suppose the house is always carefullysecured at night?”
“Yes, sir,” Griscom assured him. “Mr. Tracy was very particular aboutthat. He and all the household had latchkeys, and the front door—indeed,all the doors and windows were carefully seen to.”
“Who has latchkeys?”
“Mr. Everett, Mr. Dean, myself and the housekeeper. Then there are otherswhich are given to guests. Mr. Ames had one——”
“With so many latchkeys about, one may have been abstracted by someevil-minded person.”
“Not likely, sir. We keep strict watch on them.”
“Well, that would only give entrance to the house. How could anyone getinto and out of Mr. Tracy’s room, leaving the door locked on the inside?”
I knew Moore purposely voiced this problem himself, to head off those whowould ask it of him. He had often said to me, “if you don’t want aquestion asked of you, ask it yourself of somebody else.” And so, as heflung this at them each felt derelict in not being able to reply.
But Ames’s querulous voice volleyed the question back.
“That’s why I want you to do up this business, Moore,” he said. “That’swhat makes it such a pretty problem——”
Moore could stand this no longer.
“For an intimate friend of a martyred man, I should think you would seethe matter in a more personal light than a pretty problem!”
“Oh, I do. I’m sad and sorry enough, but I don’t wear my heart on mysleeve. And first of all, I’m keen to avenge my friend. And I know thatwhat’s to be done must be done quickly. So, get busy, I beg.”
The more Ames said, the less I liked him, and I knew Kee felt the sameway about it. But the man was right as to haste being advisable. Thecircumstances were so peculiar, the conditions so fantastic, that searchfor the criminal must be made quickly, or a man of such diabolicalcleverness would put himself beyond our reach.
The Inspector, the police detective and Keeley Moore consulted a fewmoments and then Inspector Farrell said:
“The case is altered. Now that we know it is wilful murder, and not astroke of illness, we must act accordingly. Coroner Hart will conduct animmediate inquiry, preliminary to his formal inquest. No on
e may leavethe house; you, Griscom, will tell the servants this, and I shall call inmore help from the police station to guard the place. We will godownstairs, and the Coroner will choose a suitable room, and begin hisinvestigation.”
Farrell was an efficient director, though in no way a detective. Helocked the door that commanded the whole apartment after he had herded usall out.
We filed downstairs, and I could hear women’s voices in a small receptionroom as we passed it.
The Coroner chose a room which was fitted up as a sort of writing room.It was of moderate size and contained several desks or writing tables,evidently a writing room for guests. There was a bookcase of books and atable of periodicals and newspapers.
Clearly, the house had every provision for comfort and pleasure. Save forthe sinister atmosphere now pervading it, I felt I should have liked tovisit there.
The Coroner settled himself at a table, and instructed Griscom to send inthe house servants one at a time. He also told the butler to servebreakfast as usual, and advised Harper Ames to go to the dining room, ashe would be called on later for testimony.
Hart’s manner now was crisp and business-like. The realization of theawful facts of the case had spurred him to definite and immediate action.
Mrs. Fenn, the cook-housekeeper, threw no new light on the situation. Shecorroborated Griscom’s story of the locked door and the subsequentopening of it by Louis, but she could add no new information.
“You were fond of Mr. Tracy?” asked Moore, kindly, for the poor woman wasvainly trying to control her grief.
“Oh, yes, sir. He was a good master and a truly great man.”
“You’ve never known, among the guests of the house, any one who was hisenemy?”
“No, sir. But I almost never see the guests. I’m housekeeper, to be sure,but the maids do all the housework. I superintend the cooking.”
“And you’ve heard no gossip about any one who had an enmity or a grudgetoward Mr. Tracy?”
“Ah, who could have? He was a gentle, peaceable man, was Mr. Tracy. Whocould wish him harm?”
“Yet somebody did,” the Coroner put in, and then he dismissed Mrs. Fenn,feeling she could be of no use.
The other house servants were similarly ignorant of any guest orneighbour who was unfriendly to Mr. Tracy, and then Hart called for thechauffeur.
Louis, a Frenchman, was different in manner and disinclined to talk. Infact, he refused to do so unless all members of the household were sentfrom the room.
So the Coroner ordered everybody out except Farrell and Detective March,Moore and myself.
Then Louis waxed confidential and declared that Mr. Ames and Mr. Tracywere deadly enemies.
I thought the man was exaggerating, and that he had some grudge of hisown against Ames. But Hart listened avidly to the chauffeur’sarraignment, and I was forced to the conclusion that Louis knew a lot.
Yet it was all hints and innuendoes. He stated that the two men werecontinually quarrelling. Asked what about, he replied “Money matters.”
“What sort of money matters?” Hart asked him.
“Stocks and bonds and mortgages. I think Mr. Ames owed Mr. Tracy a greatdeal of money and he couldn’t or wouldn’t pay it, and so they wrangledover it.”
“There was no quarrelling on other subjects?”
“No, sir, except now and then about Mrs. Dallas.”
“And what about her?”
“Well, Mr. Ames didn’t want Mr. Tracy to marry her.”
“Did Mr. Ames favour the lady himself?”
“Oh, no, sir. He’s a woman hater. Or at least he says so. No, but hedidn’t want Mr. Tracy to marry anybody for fear he might cut him, Mr.Ames, out of his will.”
“How do you know all these things?”
“Well, I drive the car, you see, and they talk these matters over, and Ican’t help hearing them. They make no bones of it, they talk right out. Inever repeat anything I hear, in an ordinary way, but as you ask me,sir——”
“Yes, Louis, tell all you know. So Mr. Ames would suffer financially ifMr. Tracy married?”
“I don’t know that, sir, but I know he thought he would. And I suppose heknew.”
“It seems to me,” Farrell said, “we ought to know the terms of Mr.Tracy’s will as it might help us to get at the truth.”
“We can’t do that at the moment,” Hart said, “and anyway, this is merelya preliminary inquiry to get the main facts of the situation.”
But the other servants had no more information to impart than thosehitherto questioned. A chambermaid, one Sally Bray, convinced us that allthe queer decorations spread on the bed had been already in the room andwere, therefore, not brought in by the murderer.
The red feather duster belonged in a small cupboard that held polishingcloths and dusters. The larkspur flowers had been in a vase on a sidetable, and the whole bunch had been removed from the vase and laid aroundthe dead man. The orange and crackers had been on a plate on the bedsidetable, but where the plate was, Sally had no idea. The crucifix was Mr.Tracy’s property and belonged on a small hook above the head of his bed.
“And the scarf,” suggested Hart. “The red chiffon scarf, where did thatcome from?”
Sally blushed and looked down, but finally being urged to tell, said thatshe knew it to be a scarf belonging to Mrs. Dallas, and the lady had leftit there one evening not long ago, when she had been there to dinner.
“Why had it not been returned to her?” Hart wanted to know.
“Because Mr. Tracy took a notion to it. It was a sort of keepsake of thelady, sir, and, too, Mr. Tracy was that fond of beautiful things. Anypretty piece of silk or brocade would please him tremenjous.”
“Then, whoever arranged all those decorations round him knew of his lovefor beautiful things, and that would explain the flowers and the scarf.Is there anything missing from his room, Sally?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve not been allowed in there this morning.”
“Well, go up there now. Tell the guard he’s to let you in. Here’s thekey.”
“Oh, sir, I—I daren’t! Don’t make me go in there!”
The girl shivered with real fear, but Hart had to know.
“You must go,” he said, not unkindly. “Get Griscom to go with you, orMrs. Fenn, if you like. But it is important for me to know if anythinghas been taken away that you know of. I don’t mean papers or letters fromhis desk. I mean any of his appointments or small belongings.”
The girl went off, still shuddering, and Hart finished up the rest of theservants in short order.
Next he interviewed Charlie Everett. I had taken a fancy to Everett, andsomehow, from the way Kee looked at him, I thought he liked him, too.
He was not a distinguished-looking man, but he seemed a well-balancedsort, and his eyes were alert and showed a sense of humour. Not that theoccasion called for humour, but you can always tell by a man’s eyes if hehas that desirable trait.
Very quiet and self-possessed was Everett, his manner polite but a littledetached. He was quite ready to answer questions but he gave only theanswer, no additional information.
Yes, he said, he had spent an hour or so with Mr. Tracy the night before.They had played a game of billiards and had then sat for a short timeover a cigar and a whisky and soda. Then, perhaps about ten o’clock, hehad said good night to his employer and had gone to his own room. No, hecould form no idea whatever as to who could have killed Sampson Tracy, orhow he could have got into the room.
“That is,” he amended his speech, “he could get in easy enough, but Idon’t see how he could get out and leave the door locked behind him.”
“It is one of those cases,” Hart said, a little sententiously, “wherethere has been a murder committed in a sealed room.”
Keeley Moore spoke up then.
“A murder cannot be committed in a sealed room,” he said, “unless themurderer stays there. If the murderer left the room, the room was not asealed room.”
“How did he get o
ut?” demanded Hart.
“That we have yet to learn. But he did get out, not through the door tothe hall. Remains the possibility of a secret passage and the windows.”
“I’m sure there is no secret passage,” Everett said, with an unusualburst of unasked information. “I’ve been here three years and if therewas such a thing I’m sure I’d know of it.”
“You might and you might not,” said Moore, looking at him. “If Mr. Tracywanted a private entrance to his suite for any reason, he would have hadit built and kept the matter quiet.”
“Not Sampson Tracy,” exclaimed Everett. “He was not a secretive man. Ithink I may say I knew all about his affairs, both business matters andprivate dealings, and he trusted me absolutely.”
“Even so,” Moore told him. “But in the lives of most men there is somesecret, something that they don’t talk over with anybody.”
“Not Mr. Tracy,” Everett reiterated. “Even his engagement to Mrs. Dallaswas freely talked over with me, both before it occurred and since. I knowall about his habits and his fads and whims. And in no case was thereever an occasion for a secret passage to or from his rooms.”
“Yet it may be there,” Kee insisted. “But if none can be found, then themurderer either escaped by the windows or——”
“Or what?” asked Hart.
“Or he had a steel wire contraption to turn the key from the outside. Butthis I don’t think likely, for the door has a rather complicated lock,and is far from being an easy thing to manipulate.”
“You know the terms of his will, then?” the Coroner inquired.
“Oh, yes,” Everett said. “At present his niece, Miss Remsen, is hisprincipal heir. There are many bequests to friends and to servants, butthe bulk of the estate goes to Miss Remsen. Mr. Tracy knew that hismarriage would invalidate this will, which was why he had not changed it.He said that after his wedding with Mrs. Dallas, he would revise the willto suite his changed estate.”
“Then, under his existing will, Mrs. Dallas has no legacy?”
“Not unless Mr. Tracy made a change without telling me. He may have donethat, but I think it very unlikely.”
“You know of no one then, who had sufficient enmity toward Mr. Tracy todesire his death?”
“Absolutely no one. So far as I am aware, he hadn’t an acquaintance inthe world who was anything but friendly toward him.”
Everett was dismissed and Billy Dean was called in.
He was a pleasant-faced chap of twenty-three or thereabouts. His work wasfar from being as important as Everett’s. In fact he was really ahigh-class stenographer and office boy.
He was good looking with big brown eyes and a curly mop of brown hair. Hetoo, scoffed at the idea of a secret passage in the house.
“Pleasure Dome has all the modern improvements,” he said, “but nothinglike that. If there was such a thing, I’d have been through it in notime. I can ferret out anything queer of that sort by instinct, andthere’s nothing doing. There’s no way in and out of Mr. Tracy’s suite butby that one hall door. I know that. And it has a special lock. He hadthat put on about six months ago.”
“Why? Was he afraid of intruders?”
“Don’t think so. But there had been some robberies down in the villageand he said it was as well to be on the safe side.”
“Then, Mr. Dean, in your opinion, how did the man who killed Mr. Tracyget out of his rooms?”
“That’s where you get me. I’m positively kerflummixed. I can’t seeanybody twisting that peculiar key with a bit of wire. Though that’seasier to swallow than to imagine any one jumping out of the window.”
“Why? The windows are not so very high.”
“No. But the lake there is mighty deep and dangerous.”
“Why specially dangerous?”
“Because there are swirling undercurrents, you see, it’s almost like acaldron. That Sunless Sea, as Mr. Tracy named it, is in a cove and thewinds make the water eddy about, and—well, I’m a pretty fair diver, but Iwouldn’t dive out of a second story window into that cove!”
“Then, we have to look for either a clever mechanician or an expertdiver,” said Keeley Moore. “How about the chauffeur?”
“He’s an expert mechanician all right, but he wouldn’t harm a hair of Mr.Tracy’s head. He loved him, as, indeed, we all did. Nobody could helploving that man. He was always genial, courteous and kindly toeverybody.”
“And his niece, Miss Remsen?” asked the Coroner. “She, too, is gentle andlovely?”
Young Dean blushed fiery red.
“Yes, she is,” was all he said, but no clairvoyance was needed to readhis thoughts of her.
“Is she here?” asked Moore, knowing we had seen her arrive.
“Yes,” Billy Dean said. “We telephoned her so soon as we knew what hadhappened, and she came right over.”
“You may go now,” said the Coroner, “and please send Miss Remsen inhere.”
The Deep Lake Mystery Page 4