More Rivals of Sherlock Holmes

by Nick Rennison

  Madelyn pushed back her chair with a quick gesture of satisfaction. ‘How often must I tell you that nothing is trivial – in crime? That answer atones for all of your previous failures, Nora. You may go to the head of the class! No, not another word!’ she interrupted as I stared at her. ‘I don’t want to think or talk – now. I must have some music to clear my brain if I am to scatter these cobwebs!’

  I sank back with a sigh of resignation and watched her as she stepped across to the phonograph, resting on the cabinet of records in the corner. I knew from experience that she had veered into a mood in which I would have gained an instant rebuke had I attempted to press the case farther. Patiently or impatiently, I must await her pleasure to reopen our discussion.

  ‘What shall it be?’ she asked almost gaily, with her nervous alertness completely gone as she stooped over the record case. ‘How would the quartet from Rigoletto strike your mood? I think it would be ideal, for my part.’

  From Verdi we circled to Donizetti’s Lucia, and then, in an odd whim, her hand drew forth a haphazard selection from William Tell. It was the latter part of the ballet music, and the record was perhaps half completed when the door opened – we had not heard the bell – and Susan announced Adolph Van Sutton.

  Madelyn rose, but she did not stop the machine. Mr Van Sutton plumped nervously into the seat that she extended to him, gazing with obvious embarrassment at her radiant face as she stood with her head bent forward and a faint smile on her lips, completely under the sway of Rossini’s matchless music.

  She stopped the machine sharply at the end of the record. When she whirled back toward us, William Tell had been forgotten. She was again the sharp-eyed, sharp-questioning ferret, with no thought beyond the problem of the moment. I think the transformation astonished our caller even more than the glimpse of her unexpected mood at his entrance. I could imagine that his matter-of-fact, commercial mind was floundering in the effort to understand the remarkable young woman before him.

  Madelyn changed her seat to one almost directly opposite her nervous client. She was about to speak when she noted his eyes turned questioningly in my direction.

  ‘This is my friend, Miss Noraker, Mr Van Sutton,’ she announced formally. ‘I believe you have met before.’

  Mr Van Sutton polished his glasses with his handkerchief as he responded somewhat dubiously. ‘Miss Noraker is a – a reporter, I believe? Don’t you think, Miss Mack, that our conversation should be, er – private?’

  I had already risen when Madelyn motioned to me to pause. ‘Miss Noraker is not here in her newspaper capacity. She is a personal friend who has accompanied me in so many of my cases that I look upon her almost as a lieutenant. You can rest assured that nothing which you or I would wish kept silent will be published!’

  Mr Van Sutton’s face cleared, and he bowed to me as if in apology. ‘Very well, Miss Mack. I am sure I can rely upon your discretion perfectly.’

  I resumed my chair at a sign from Madelyn, and our visitor stared out into the grey dusk, with the lines of his clean-shaven face showing the uneasiness and worry of the past twenty-four hours.

  Madelyn was the first to speak. ‘Will you tell me candidly, Mr Van Sutton, why you objected so persistently to your daughter’s marriage?’

  Our caller swung around in his chair as though a shot had been fired at his elbow. ‘What do you mean, young woman?’

  Madelyn dropped her chin on to her hand and the fleeting twinkle I know so well flashed into her eyes. ‘Six months ago, you positively refused to consider Norris Endicott as your daughter’s suitor. Three months ago he approached you again and you refused him a second time. It was only four weeks ago, that you gave your consent – a somewhat grudging one, if I must be plain – and the date of the wedding was fixed almost immediately.’

  Adolph Van Sutton stared across at Madelyn with widening eyes. The flush faded from his cheeks, leaving them a dull white.

  ‘I employed you, Miss Mack, to trace Norris Endicott, not to burrow into my personal affairs!’

  Madelyn stepped toward the door. ‘I will send in the bill for my services within the week, Mr Van Sutton. Did you leave your hat in the hall?’

  ‘Am I to understand that you are throwing up the case?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Adolph Van Sutton thrust his hands restlessly into his pockets. ‘I – I beg your pardon, Miss Mack! Please sit down, and overlook a nervous man’s excitability. You can hardly understand the strain I am under. You were asking me – what was it you were asking me? Ah, you were inquiring into my relations with young Endicott!’

  Mr Van Sutton rolled his handkerchief into a ball between his hands as Madelyn coldly resumed her chair. ‘There is really nothing to tell you. You are a woman of the world, Miss Mack. I objected to Mr Endicott as a husband for my daughter because, frankly, he was a poor man – and Bertha has hardly been raised in a manner that would teach her economy. Have I made myself clear?’ He dropped his handkerchief into his pocket and his lips tightened. ‘Bertha had her own way in the end – as she generally does – and I gave in. Is there anything more?’

  ‘I believe that personally you preferred Willard White as a son-in-law. Am I right?’

  ‘What of it?’

  Madelyn gave a little sigh. ‘Nothing – nothing! You have been very patient, Mr Van Sutton. I am going to ask you just one question more – before we leave for “The Maples”. Does the second storey veranda under Mr Endicott’s window extend along the entire side of the house?’

  I think that we both stared at her.

  ‘The second storey veranda?’ repeated Mr Van Sutton. ‘I thought you told me that you had never been to my home!’

  Madelyn snapped her fingers with a suggestion of impatience. ‘I know there must be such a veranda! There could be no other way –’ she bit her sentence through as though checking an unspoken thought. ‘Unless I am mistaken, it extends from the front entirely to the rear. Am I correct?’

  ‘You are, but –’

  Madelyn pressed the bell at her elbow. ‘I see you have brought your automobile. I will take the liberty of asking you to share our dinner here. Then we can start for “The Maples” immediately afterward. With luck we should reach there shortly after eight. Is that agreeable to you?’

  ‘Really, Miss Mack –’

  But Madelyn waved her hand, and the matter was settled.

  III

  The clock was exactly on the stroke of eight when our machine whirled through the broad gate of ‘The Maples’, after an invigorating dash through the New Jersey shadows. At the end of the driveway we saw the colonial mansion, whose wedding night festivities had been so abruptly shattered.

  If we had expected a house buried in the gloom of mystery we were disappointed. ‘The Maples’ was a blaze of light from cellar to attic. It was not until the automobile stopped at the front veranda, and the solemn face of the butler presented itself with its mutely questioning glance, that we found our first hint of crime or tragedy.

  Mr Van Sutton conducted us at once to the library – a long, high, massively furnished room toward the end of the central hall extending entirely through the house. At the door, he turned with a short bow.

  ‘It is needless to say, of course, that the house and its inmates are at your service. I am completely ignorant of your methods, Miss Mack. If you will let me know –’

  He stopped, for Madelyn had walked over to one of the long dormer windows and stood staring out into the darkness, with her hands beating a low tattoo on the glass.

  ‘Is Mr Endicott’s room on this side?’’ she asked without turning.

  ‘Almost directly overhead.’

  ‘And the drawing-room – where the ceremony was to have been performed – I take it, is on the other side?’

  There was a faraway note in her voice, which told me that she hardly heard Mr Van Sutton’s form
al assent.

  For perhaps three minutes she remained peering out into the shadowy lawn, as oblivious to our presence as though she had been alone. Our host was pacing back and forth over the polished floor when she whirled.

  ‘Will you take me up to Mr Endicott’s room now, please?’

  Mr Van Sutton strode to the door with an air of relief. ‘I, myself, will escort you.’

  Madelyn did not speak during the ascent to the upper floor. Once Mr Van Sutton ventured a remark, but she made no effort to reply, and he desisted with a shrug. She did not even break her silence when he threw open the door of a chamber at the end of the corridor, and we realised that we were in the room of the missing bridegroom.

  For a moment we paused at the threshold, as our guide found the switch and turned on the electric lights. It was a large, airy apartment, with a small alcove at one end containing a bed, and a door at the other end opening into a marble-tiled bathroom. An effort had been made to preserve the contents exactly as they had been found on the previous evening. The dressing table was still strewn with a varied assortment of toilet articles, as though they had just been dropped. The curtain of one window was jerked to the top, while its companion hung decorously to the sill.

  Madelyn darted merely a cursory glance at the room. Stepping across to the writing-table, she seized the wastepaper basket leaning against its side. It was empty. In spite of this fact, she lifted it to the table and whipped out a small magnifying glass from her handbag. For fully five minutes she bent over it, studying the woven straw with as much eagerness as a miner searching for gold dust.

  When she straightened, her eyes flashed uncertainly around the walls. Directly opposite was an asbestos grate of gas logs. She sank on to her knees before it, the magnifying glass again to her eyes.

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Mack?’ Mr Van Sutton asked impatiently.

  She did not even glance in our direction. Rising to her feet, she stepped back to the writing-table where two ashtrays were resting. ‘Were these Mr Endicott’s?’

  ‘I – I suppose so. Why?’

  Madelyn carried the trays nearer to the light. One held a litter of ashes; the second tray both ashes and crumbling cigarette stubs. I caught a curious flicker of satisfaction in her eyes.

  ‘Mr Endicott must have been something of a smoker, wasn’t he?’ she asked, as though mentioning a self-evident fact.

  ‘On the contrary, he was not!’ retorted Mr Van Sutton.

  ‘Good!’ she cried so heartily that we both stared at her. As she returned the trays, her abstraction vanished. I even caught the fragment of a tune under her breath when she threw open the door of the roomy closet at the other side of the room. It was Schumann’s Traumerei.

  A man’s light grey street suit was hanging from the row of clothes hooks on the wall. On the floor, a pair of shoes had been tossed. It did not need our host’s terse comment to tell us that they belonged to Norris Endicott.

  ‘You will find nothing there, Miss Mack,’ he volunteered. ‘The police have had the pockets inside out half a dozen times!’

  A cry from Madelyn interrupted him. She had passed the suit with a shrug and had seized the discarded shoes.

  ‘What is it?’ Mr Van Sutton demanded, pressing forward.

  Madelyn tossed the shoes back to the floor. Closing the door, she stood tapping her jade bracelet. Again I thought that I heard the strains of Traumerei. ‘I was once asked to name a detective’s first rule of guidance,’ she said irrelevantly. ‘I answered to remember always that nothing is trivial – in crime.’ She paused. ‘Every day I find something new to prove the correctness of my rule!’

  ‘But surely you have discovered nothing –’

  Madelyn gazed at the owner of ‘The Maples’ with her peculiar twinkle. ‘There are two persons in this house with whom I would like a few moments’ conversation. They are the butler and Miss Van Sutton’s maid. Could you have them sent to the library?’

  ‘Certainly. Is there anything else?’

  Madelyn reached absently across to the ashtrays again. There seemed a peculiar fascination for her in their prosaic litter.

  ‘Could I also have the honour of a short interview with your daughter?’

  Mr Van Sutton inclined his head and stepped into the hall. As I followed him, the door was closed sharply behind us. I whirled around and heard the key turn. Madelyn had locked herself in.

  Mr Van Sutton straightened with a frown. Then, without a word, he spun about on his heels and strode toward his daughter’s boudoir. I descended the stairs alone.

  It was almost a quarter of an hour later that Madelyn rejoined me. She nodded briefly to the butler, who was sitting on the edge of a chair as stiffly erect as a ramrod. But she did not pause. Hardly deigning a glance at me, she stepped over to the long shelves of books, built higher than her arms could reach, and her hand zigzagged along the rich leather bindings and gilt letters. Selecting a massive morocco volume from one of the central rows, she dropped into the nearest seat. The book was an encyclopedia, extending from the letter ‘H’ to the letter ‘N’.

  As she spread it open in her lap, apparently for the first time she recalled the butler. She glanced up.

  ‘You will excuse me?’

  ‘Yes, madam!’

  ‘I will be through in a moment!’

  ‘Yes, madam!’

  Jenkins’ face resumed its stolidness, and Madelyn’s gaze dropped to her book. She could not have read a dozen lines, however, when she closed it and sprang to her feet. She paced across the library, her hands behind her back.

  ‘I have only one question to ask, Jenkins.’

  ‘Yes, madam!’

  ‘I wish to know whether Mr Endicott ordered a tray of ashes brought up to his room last night?’

  Jenkins’ eyes widened and his hands dropped to his sides. ‘A tray of ashes?’ he stammered.

  ‘I believe that is what I said!’

  With a visible effort Jenkins recovered his composure. His twenty years’ training had not been in vain. ‘No, madam!’ he answered in a rather dubious tone.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure? I may tell you that a great deal depends upon your answer!’

  Jenkins’ voice recovered its steadiness. ‘I am quite sure!’

  ‘Is it possible that you would not know?’

  ‘I am confident that I would know!’

  Madelyn sank into the leather rocker by her side, with an expression of the most genuine disappointment that I have ever seen her exhibit. In the silence that followed, the ticking of the colonial clock in the corner sounded with harsh distinctness. Outside in the hall I fancied I heard a repressed cough. Miss Van Sutton’s maid evidently was awaiting her turn. Madelyn’s slight, black-garbed figure had fallen back in her chair, and her right hand was pressed over her eyes.

  ‘Would you mind leaving the room for a few moments, Nora? No, Jenkins, I wish that you would stay. I find that I have another question for you.’

  Annette, the maid, was walking back and forth in the hall as I opened the door. She glanced toward me, but did not speak. I had hardly noted the details of her figure, however, when the door of the library opened again and the butler followed me. Dull wonder was written on his face as he nodded shortly to the girl to take his place.

  My thoughts were broken by the swish of skirts on the stairs. The next moment I faced Adolph Van Sutton and his daughter. This was the first time during the day that I had seen the latter. She had remained locked in her room since morning, denying all interviewers, and only giving Detective Wiley a scant five minutes after his third request. I had expected to find evidences of a pronounced strain after her prostration of the previous evening, but I was startled by her pallor as her father took her arm and led her down the hall.

  Of all the heart-broken women, whether of cottage or mansion, with whom my newspaper
career has brought me in contact, there was no figure more pathetic than that of the heiress of the Van Sutton millions as she swayed toward me on that eventful night.

  Bertha Van Sutton crossed wearily into the library as the maid emerged. ‘I have one favour to request, Miss Mack, and if you have ever suffered in your lifetime, you will grant it. Please be as brief as possible!’

  ‘Do you want me here?’ her father asked.

  Madelyn had walked over to the bookshelves, and was again delving into the pages of the morocco encyclopedia. ‘I would prefer not!’ she answered without looking up.

  It was well toward half past nine (I had glanced at my watch a dozen times) when the two women in the library emerged. The form of Bertha Van Sutton was bent even more than before, and it was evident at a glance that the strain of the interview had brought her almost to the point of a collapse.

  As I started forward, the light flashed for an instant on a round gleaming object in Madelyn Mack’s hand. It was the small silver ball that had been found in Norris Endicott’s room.

  At that moment, the front bell tinkled through the house. There was a short conversation in the vestibule, and then Jenkins ushered a tall, loosely jointed figure into the hall. It was Detective Wiley of the Newark headquarters. (Of course, the affair at ‘The Maples’ had come under the jurisdiction of the New Jersey police.)

  The detective’s ruddy face, with its stubble of beard, was flushed with an unusual excitement, and his stiff, sandy moustache stood out in two bristling lines from his mouth. He received Madelyn’s bow with a short, half-contemptuous nod, as he snapped out, ‘I’m right after all, Mr Van Sutton! It’s murder – nothing more nor less!’

  ‘Murder!’ The gasp came from Bertha Van Sutton. For an instant I thought she was about to faint.

  Wiley glanced around the group with a suggestion of conscious importance which did not leave him, even in the tension of the moment.

  ‘We have found Mr Endicott’s clothes in Thompson’s Creek – and the coat is covered with blood!’