CHAPTER X DISCUSSION
If Whistling Reeds had seemed desolate and sinister, Variable Winds wasjust the opposite. Clean, wind-swept, cheerful with flowers and onlypleasantly shaded by the waving trees, the place was like sanctuary afterthe forbidding aspect of the island home.
Luncheon was ready and the two women who awaited our coming were not atall reproachful, but welcomed us with smiles.
“Dust up a bit and then come along,” admonished Lora, and we obeyed.
At the table, though the subject of the tragedy was not entirely taboo,there was no real discussion, until we were, later, seated in the lounge,comfortably smoking and resting from our strenuous morning.
“The keynote is the missing waistcoats,” Kee announced, oracularly.
“You said the keynote was the watch in the water pitcher,” I remindedhim.
“They are part of the same note,” he informed me. “The work of the samehand and equally illuminating as signboards.”
“Oh, if you’re going to be mysterious——”
“I’m not, Gray, but I can’t announce decisions that are not yet entirelyclear in my own mind. I’m sorry Doctor Rogers went away—he could read themessage of the watch at once. But I don’t want to put it up to any otherdoctor.”
“Well, of course I can’t help you, as you are so close-minded——”
“Nonsense, Gray,” said Lora, “of course we can help. The watch may or maynot be of such great importance, but it surely isn’t all there is of it.Nor the waistcoats, either. To me, those things seem merely adjuncts ofthe rest of the queer performance, the flowers and feather duster and allthat.”
“But the waistcoats are in contradictory stories,” I argued. “Miss Remsensaid she took them home Tuesday afternoon, and left them in the boathousewhere they were found. Griscom says they were in their place onWednesday. Then Everett came along and said Mr. Tracy wore one of them,the blue one, Wednesday night at dinner.”
“Well, then,” and Lora looked at me keenly, “what point are you making,Gray? These stories seem to stultify Miss Remsen’s statement.”
“I’m making the point,” I declared, “that the girl isn’t quiteresponsible for her own statements; she doubtless told her uncle shewould like the satin for her patchwork and he probably said she couldhave it. But she didn’t carry the waistcoats away with her, Tuesdayafternoon—that we know. So, what conclusion is there, but that, as theold nurse said, it is all a plant? Somebody came in the night, killed Mr.Tracy, and then, after fixing up all that jiggery-pokery, went offcarrying the waistcoats and Totem Pole, and carefully planted them inAlma Remsen’s boathouse. I can’t see anything incriminating to the girlin all that.”
“Gray, dearie,” Lora said, with a queer, affectionate little smile, “youcouldn’t see anything incriminating to Miss Remsen with a Lick telescope!Now, that’s all right, and I’m not cavilling, but unless you can approachthis matter with an unbiassed mind, maybe you’d better keep out of it.”
“Keep out of it nothing!” I exclaimed. “I admit I admire Miss Remsen, butthat’s all the more reason to see things clearly and stay in thediscussion.”
“Right!” said Maud, “and I vote that Gray be in it all, and that we payespecial attention to his opinions.”
I looked at her quickly, to see if she was guying me, but she was not,and I at once recovered my balance, my self-respect and an added cocksureair that caused the Moores, both of them, great amusement.
But I was not at all daunted by their smiles and I went on.
“My opinion is this,” I stated, “the man who killed Sampson Tracy is asclever as they come. He fixed up all the rubbishy evidence to mislead theinvestigators. But, perhaps on purpose, perhaps accidentally, he leddirectly to Miss Remsen in the matter of the waistcoats and the TotemPole. And so——”
“Now, Graysie, dear,” and Kee threw the stub of his cigar into the ashtray, “I’m ready to talk. So, call a halt on the waistcoat-totem matter,and let’s get down to cases.”
“It’s a case, all right,” said Lora, whose fine eyes were gazing directlyat her husband, as she concentrated on the subject. “Kee, you’ve got yourchance!”
“Chance!” Moore echoed. “I’m no Sherlock, I’m ready to say right out thatI’m all afloat, absolutely at sea, in this thing.”
Somehow this comforted me. I feared he would jump at once to a conclusionthat somehow incriminated Alma Remsen, and I was greatly relieved that hedidn’t.
Wanting to be helpful, I volunteered: “How about the weapon? There’s thenail, of course, but what about the hammer or mallet? I can’t see thatnail driven without a heavy implement.”
Kee looked at me.
“No,” he said, “I can’t either. How about a croquet mallet?”
“That would fit,” I responded. “Know of any here-abouts?”
“Not precisely. But the tennis court at Whistling Reeds used to be acroquet ground.”
I quailed, but I hoped I didn’t show it.
“And that proves?” I said, jauntily.
“Nothing but possibility.”
“Which isn’t much.”
“No, it isn’t much.” Kee looked harassed. “But a lot of little bits ofevidence, added together, make a——”
“Make a muckle,” I jibed. “All right, what’s your muckle?”
“That Alma Remsen knows more about this matter than she’s telling.”
Moore’s deadly still tone, more than his words, struck a chill of terrorto my heart.
For a moment, knowing his great wisdom as well as I did, I was tempted totell him everything, but caution held me back, and I only said, “it maybe.”
Lora looked at me, curiously.
“Gray,” she said, “you don’t know anything, do you?” I was glad she putit like this.
“No, Lora,” I replied, “I don’t know anything. If I did, I’d speak out.But I do believe that there is a deep, dark, underlying mystery that noneof us understands, and I wish I could see into it.”
“Kee will see into it,” she said, confidently, and I could only respond:“I hope to Heaven he will.”
Kee sat without speaking for a moment or two, and then said:
“Gray, what was the reason for Miss Remsen’s sudden change of base whilewe were talking to her?”
“Change of base?” I said, stupidly.
“Yes. Don’t be an imbecile. I know you noticed it. It was just after Itold her the police would come to interview her. That seemed to spur heror stir her up in some way, for she at once became a different being.More alert and alive, more determined.”
“Yes, I noticed it,” I told him. “I can’t explain it except to say thatshe was startled at the idea of a police interview, and it brought outher natural bravery and courage. She rose to the occasion and I’ve nodoubt she will meet Hart with proper dignity and poise.”
“It won’t be Hart, it will be March. March is a good man, but I doubt ifhe can swing this case.”
“Of course he can’t,” I declared. “But you’re going to do the swinging,yourself.”
“Then I’d better begin. Now let’s marshal our facts. First of all, wehave the collection of properties found on the bed. Was that all the workof one hand?”
“Yes,” I said, “but not necessarily the hand of the murderer.”
“That’s right,” and Moore nodded assent. “I’m inclined to think awaggish-minded visitor followed up the murderer and arranged thatscenery.”
“Why?” asked Lora, very thoughtfully.
“I can think of no reason,” Kee returned, “except in an effort to directsuspicion away from the real criminal.”
“Who would do that?”
“Only a clever and watchful person, determined to shield the murderer.”
“Set up a hypothetical case,” suggested Maud. “Say, Mrs. Dallas was themurderer——”
“How absurd,” cried Lora, “why should she kill the man she expected tomar
ry?”
“That we don’t know,” Maud went on in her calm way. “But there may havebeen reasons. Suppose Mr. Tracy had learned some secret in Mrs. Dallas’spast——”
“Go on,” Kee said, briefly, as Maud looked at him questioningly.
“I know it sounds melodramatic, but the whole affair is melodramatic, andthose clues don’t seem to lead anywhere. Well, suppose Mrs. Dallas didit—killed him, I mean—and suppose somebody saw her who cared for her, Mr.Ames or Mr. Everett, or—or anybody. Mightn’t he trump up all that funnybusiness to make it seem as if she could not have done it?”
“I don’t think you’ve struck it quite right, Maud,” Keeley said, “but Iwill say there’s a germ of thought in your theory. Granting two peopleconcerned, there’s no reason to think them accomplices, it’s far morelikely one is covering up the deeds of the other.”
“All of which is fantastic and not founded on fact,” Lora put in. “It’sonly imagination, and one can imagine anything.”
“You have no use for imagination?” I asked her, smiling.
“Yes, when it is admittedly imagination, as in a fairy story or aromance. But imagination must not be used as a basis for argument.”
“She’s right,” Keeley said, slowly. “Lora’s usually right. Now what factshave we, outside the feather-duster lot?”
“The people themselves,” I offered. “The relationships between the peopleand the motives of the people.”
“That’s more like it,” and Kee gave me a glance of approval. “Take thehousehold first. Who’s the most likely suspect?”
“Mrs. Dallas,” I said, promptly.
“She isn’t in the household.”
“Same as. She has a latchkey, so that makes her practically one of them.”
“Then Alma Remsen is in the same case.”
“Same case,” I agreed, knowing better than to combat him.
“All right, go on. What’s the widow’s motive?”
I knew Moore’s methods. He liked to have us make suggestions that hecould accept or discard, thereby giving his mind something to work on.
“We can’t get at her motive,” I told him, “because we know too littleabout her. A personal interview with her is needed, and then she wouldprobably, or at least perhaps, let slip some hint of why she wantedSampson Tracy out of her way.”
“She’d have to hate him,” said Maud, doubtfully.
“Whoever killed him must have hated him,” Kee declared. “It was a brutalmurder——”
“Don’t over-stress the brutality,” Lora put in. “It was horrible, ofcourse, but to my mind it was less dreadful than shooting or stabbing.”
“Where did the murderer get his nail?” mused Kee.
“The nail and the hammer,” Lora said, “inclines me to the servants, orthe secretaries. I can’t see Mrs. Dallas or Alma Remsen coming to thehouse armed with a hammer and nail! They might bring a pistol or adagger, but the implement used must have been picked up impulsively orimpetuously, in the Tracy pantries or offices.”
“Unless the murderer acted on the story Maud told of, the Spanish storyof _The Nail_,” I observed.
“Rather far-fetched,” Kee returned. “I’d have to see a copy of that bookin a suspect’s possession before I’d take much stock in that theory.”
“I rather fancy it,” Maud insisted. “Any of our suspects, and I supposethey include all who were questioned by the coroner, may have read thatbook.”
“The servants?” I asked.
“Yes, often servants read books that they run across, though they’d neverdream of buying them.”
“Then Griscom for choice,” Moore said. “Say his motive is a desire to gethis legacy at once. Say his friendship for his master is not so great ashe pretends, and there’s no question of his opportunity. Say he read thatgruesome tale, and concluded it would be a fine way to get his moneyquickly. Then, after his deed is accomplished, he has imagination enough,or ingenuity enough to fix up all those tricks on the bed, and in hiszeal he rather overdid it.”
“Your own imagination is running away with you,” I declared. “It may allbe true, but you’ve no atom of proof, nor even an atom of evidenceagainst Griscom more than any other servant. Sally Bray——”
“Sally Bray may have been Griscom’s accomplice. Isn’t she in love withhim?”
“Is she?” I inquired. “There’s the trouble, Kee, we don’t know enoughfacts. Is Sally in love with the butler? Is Mrs. Dallas in love with thesecretary? Is Harper Ames in love with Mrs. Dallas? Get these thingssettled for certain, and then try to fit in your theories.”
“That’s so, Gray,” Moore agreed. “And I see Mr. Police Detective Marchcoming our way. I hate to acknowledge it, but he may know more, in hisordinary police way, than we hifalutin, transcendent detectives have, sofar, been able to ferret out.”
I glanced out of the window to see the stolid-looking man tramping alongtoward our door.
Although he showed little alertness or eagerness, there was a sort ofpower in the way he carried himself that gave me a feeling of confidence.
He came in as Kee rose to greet him, spoke to the ladies in a preoccupiedway, and seated himself comfortably in a big easy chair.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve been to see the Remsen girl.”
“What about her?” Kee asked.
“Nothing, so far. She’s rattled to death, and all upset, of course, butthough I think she’s trying to hide something, I’m sure it’s nothing ofreal importance. I mean, she thinks she knows something about somebodythat seems to her of evidential value, but it isn’t.”
“How do you know it isn’t?”
“This way, Mr. Moore. She gets embarrassed at the wrong places.”
“Go on, say more about it.”
“It’s hard to explain so as to make it plausible. But when I ask herabout her doings that night, or about her relations with her uncle, orher feeling towards Mrs. Dallas, she’s as unconcerned andun-self-conscious as a child. But when I refer to those waistcoats orthat painted pole, she gets queer-like all in a minute.”
“And you gather from that?”
“That she is worried to death about the waistcoats because somebody musthave put them in her boathouse to incriminate her, and that scares her.While any talk of the actual murder seems not to disturb her nearly somuch.”
“You have imagination, Mr. March,” Moore said, looking at him with a sortof admiration. “Or you couldn’t see all that.”
“No, Mr. Moore,” the policeman looked earnest, “that’s only seeing thingsas they are. I saw all that in Miss Remsen’s face and attitude. It isn’timagination a detective needs, it’s ability to read the facts right. It’sthe criminal who has to have imagination.”
“This present murderer surely had it,” Moore said.
“Yes, if he is the one who fixed up the doodads around the dead man.Sometimes I think he was, and then again, I don’t see how he could havebeen.”
“Why?”
“Well, the murder, even though a cruel stroke, was the work of anintelligent mind. A less imaginative brain would have chosen shooting orstabbing as a method. But granting a mentality that could think of andcarry out a killing like that nail business, I can’t reconcile it with apersonality that would collect those gewgaws and scatter them around.”
“Why wasn’t that done with intent to mislead——”
“Oh, mislead, yes. But why so much of it? That’s the point. A fewflowers, now, even the crucifix—all right. But the exaggeration. Thesuperfluity. The piling on of the orange and crackers, the lady’s scarf,the watch in the water pitcher——”
“The missing waistcoats, Totem Pole, and fruit plate,” Keeley broke in,as if unable longer to keep still. “What do you make of all these things,March?”
“What I said. Exaggeration, overdoing. So, we must hunt for a nature, atemperament, that is extravagant and over generous, rather than awell-balanced mind.”
“Good work,” Keeley Moore exclaimed, for he was a
lways ready to acclaimmerit, and he thought the detective showed real insight. “And you didn’tdiscover this extravagant spirit in Miss Remsen?”
“Not a bit of it. She’s a lovely lady, and she may know something she’skeeping quiet about, but she had no hand in the crime. She had no hand inthe decoration of the deathbed in that fantastic manner. Motive she had,opportunity she had, but after all they’re not everything.”
I blessed the man in my heart for this whole-souled acquittal of Alma,and I began to feel more interest in the matter.
“Then, who’s your pet suspect?” Kee was asking.
“I have four,” the detective answered, frankly. “Mr. Ames, Mrs. Dallasand the two secretaries.”
“Quite a net full,” Keeley smiled. “Do you care to detail your reasons?Or do you think I ought to do my own investigating?”
“No,” said March, ponderously. He was a big man, heavy of voice as ofbody, and he seemed to weigh his words as he spoke them. “No, Mr. Moore,I’m only too glad to tell you all I know, to give you all I get, for Iknow you are the one to make the deductions from my facts.”
“All right, then, go ahead. Motives first, for all four. What about thewill?”
“It will be read to-morrow afternoon, after the funeral. But I will tellyou the gist of it. It’s really no secret, but better not mention itsterms until after they’re made public.”
Moore nodded, and March went on:
“The bulk of the fortune and estate goes to Miss Remsen, as she isTracy’s only natural heir. There is a gift of fifty thousand dollars toMrs. Dallas and twenty-five thousand each to the two secretaries. Oh,yes, and fifty thousand dollars to Mr. Ames.”
“This still leaves a big fortune for Miss Remsen?” Lora asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Old Tracy had between two and three millions, I’m told. Sowith the servants’ bequests and charities included, that only runs to,say, two or three hundred thousand, and the young lady is left verynicely fixed.”
“Servants get much?”
“Griscom, ten thousand, and some stocks besides. Mrs. Fenn about thesame. The other servants in proportion, according as to how long they’vebeen employed.”
“Well,” Keeley mused, “that’s enough about the conditions of the will towork on. Now, granting greed as the motive, we have your four suspectsand Griscom and the cook all possibly guilty.”
“Yes, and you needn’t exclude the other servants. I mean they all hadequal motive and the same opportunity. But it never was a servant’s job.Never.”
March looked so positive that Moore asked him to say why.
“No clues,” came the answer. “You see, granting some one of the servantshad the ingenuity, the imagination, to cook up this way of doing thekilling, he would have taken a hammer and nail from the house stores.”
“Didn’t he?”
“He did not. I’ve combed over the whole kitchen outfit, pantries,offices, storerooms, cellars, garage and every such place, and I knowevery nail and hammer in the whole place. And there’s no such nail asthat one used to end Sampson Tracy’s life in the whole layout.”
“And the hammer?” Moore looked quizzical.
“I grant the hammer is less easily identifiable. But I’ve hunted forfingerprints on the hammers and mallets around the premises, and thereare no prints on them except the ones legitimately there. This isn’tproof positive, but it’s fairly so, when you take it in connection withthe absence of any such nails as we’re searching for, and theunlikelihood of any of the under servants being able to get access to Mr.Tracy’s apartments. Except for Griscom, none of them is allowed in theliving rooms at night, and I don’t suspect Griscom—yet.”
“Now Ames and the two secretaries were inside the house, but Mrs. Dallaswas not,” Moore prompted further disclosures.
“Well, like Miss Remsen, Mrs. Dallas’s having a latchkey puts her on aneven footing with the people in the house. And I can tell you, anybodywith a latchkey could get into that house unheard. I’ve tried it, and thedoor latch and lock are so slick and so well oiled that they move withabsolute silence. Then the thick, soft rugs in the hall and on the stairsare soundproof, and there’s no creaking step anywhere. Of course, all theappointments of that house are perfect, but it’s especially true of theprecautions taken to eliminate noise.”
“Purposely so?”
“I daresay. It may be old Tracy had a special objection to noise and soguarded against it. But that doesn’t matter; the fact remains, anybodycould go all over that house without making a sound, if careful enough.”
“Then, whether the murderer was a member of the household, or a silentintruder from outside, how did he get away from Mr. Tracy’s suite ofrooms, leaving the outer door of the suite locked behind him?”
March looked Keeley Moore squarely in the face.
“Have you no idea?” he said.
“Have you?” countered Moore.
“Oh, yes, I have. He went out the window.”
“Into the lake?”
“Into the lake.”
The Deep Lake Mystery Page 10