The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Carolyn Wells

  “You seemed surprised that we do not more strongly suspect Mr. Bingham. Have you any cause to think in that direction, Mr. Farrish?” Ferrall shot the question at the lawyer quickly, hoping to take him off guard. But, as he had feared, Guy Farrish looked at him calmly and said, “Certainly not. And if I had, I should not admit it to the public. Mr. Bingham is my friend, and as I am by no means on the witness stand, I most assuredly refuse to discuss his probable, possible, or imaginary connection with this crime.”

  “But you know, do you not, that unless Mr. Bingham married this month, or next, he must lose his inheritance?”

  “That, I think, is a matter of general gossip, and in no way affects my determination not to discuss him with you. And now, gentlemen, may we not consider this interview at an end?”

  There was nothing to do but go, and the two callers went.

  But as they were about to leave the clubhouse they were addressed by a young man, a member of the club, Fred Benson.

  “If I may have a word with you,” he began, and both Somers and Ferrall gladly followed him to a secluded corner of the wide veranda.

  “I felt I must tell you something,” he said, hurriedly, and in a whisper. “f you are trying to get evidence regarding the murder, I can tell you something. I saw you talking to Mr. Farrish. Did he tell you that he met Miss Moulton alone and by appointment on the morning of her wedding day?”

  “No,” rejoined Somers, looking at the young man, curiously. “Why do you tell us?”

  “Only because it was by appointment, and they both seemed to be so secret about it.”

  IX

  The Turning Point

  “HOW do you mean, secret?” and Ferrall pricked up his ears.

  “Why, I was walking through the Fells Park, and up near the north end, where it’s woodsy, you know, I saw Mr. Farrish waiting round as if expecting somebody. He didn’t see me, and as he seemed both disturbed and impatient, I paused a moment, out of sheer curiosity, and then I saw Miss Moulton join him. She glanced around in a frightened way, and then when she saw him she ran to him with a little cry, and they took the path through the wood. It was none of my business, of course, but as the lady was to be married at noon, and as I was to be one of the ushers at the wedding, I felt a sort of right to notice it, at least. But I didn’t follow them or intrude in any way. And I’m telling you this only because Mr. Farrish might have learned in that interview some fact that might have a bearing on the mystery of the murder.”

  “At what hour was this?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but it couldn’t have been much later than nine or so, for after that I had ample time to dress and go to the wedding, and, of course, it took a much longer time for the bride to get arrayed.”

  “Are you sure it was Miss Moulton?”

  “Perfectly sure.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Benson,” said Somers, breaking in on the conversation, “I’ll ask Mr. Farrish. It might, as you suggest, lead to some information. But tell me, you were an usher, you say?”

  “Yes, Mr. Somers.”

  “Did you see or hear anything, anything at all, that could give you the slightest clue to the perpetrator of the crime?”

  “No, sir; not a thing. Why, it’s the greatest mystery in the world! A shot, from nowhere! Invisible, inaudible! No suspect, no motive! I never knew anything like it!”

  “You have no suspicions, then, of the criminal?”

  “Indeed I haven’t! Or I’d soon show him up! I’ve heard hints of suspicion directed toward the bridegroom, but that’s too dreadful to think of!”

  “It isn’t too dreadful to think of, if it isn’t too dreadful to happen, Mr. Benson.”

  “Come now, what do you mean? That it did happen? But how,—how could a man shoot his bride and no one know it?”

  “Never mind that for the moment. Granting it were possible, do you know of anything that would make you believe it were probable?”

  “Nothing but that speech Stan Bingham made at his bachelor’s dinner,” and Benson frowned a little.

  “Speech? What was it?”

  “Oh, we had rather a gay time; you know, bridegrooms’ bachelor dinners are not apt to be tame affairs, and we drank toasts to everybody concerned, from the bride down to the chauffeur who would take them away. And at last Warry Swift said ‘To the Bridegroom,’ and then added, looking at Stan, ‘I wish I stood in your shoes,’ and Bingham said, ‘I wish to Heaven you did!’ It wasn’t only a horrible thing to say, but the earnest way he said it would make your blood run cold. The whole party shut right up; there was an awful silence, and then somebody began to sing, and the incident passed over. I’ve never spoken of it to any of the men. Somehow I couldn’t.”

  “And it would seem, then, that Bingham married his bride unwillingly?”

  “Well, you must admit, Mr. Somers, it looks that way. Why else would he say that? It wasn’t a joke. Bingham has too good taste to make a joke like that; and beside, he said it as if out of the fulness of his heart.”

  “He wasn’t affected by wine?”

  “No, sir; Bingham is an abstemious chap. He may have been a little excited, and so, heedless; but that man meant what he said! It was too desperately in earnest not to be true.”

  “It’s a strong point, Mr. Benson, and one that requires cautious investigation. You see the remark might only refer to a man’s natural embarrassment on the occasion of an elaborate wedding. There never was a man who didn’t dread that ordeal.”

  “That may be, but I doubt it. I can’t think Stan Bingham guilty, of course, but neither can I think that he didn’t mean what he said that night.”

  “It would go far to prove that he only married Miss Moulton in order to inherit his own fortune,” said Ferrall. “Even if he married her without loving her, he secured his inheritance, which must have been forfeited had he remained unmarried a month or so longer.”

  “That is true. Here comes Farrish. I’ll disappear, if you want to speak to him.”

  Fred Benson considerately walked away, and as Guy Farrish approached, the detective spoke to him.

  “Just a moment, Mr. Farrish. I must trouble you once again. In the interests of justice will you tell us if you met Miss Moulton, by appointment, or otherwise, on the morning of her wedding day?”

  Farrish looked troubled. “I did, Mr. Ferrall, but I had hoped it would not be necessary to tell of that.”

  “Do you object to telling about it?”

  “Not if it is required. I met Miss Moulton at her request to answer a question of hers about her—her property.”

  “Her will?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the question?”

  “Whether her marriage would nullify her will.”

  “And why did she want to know?”

  “What an absurd inquiry! Presumably, because if it did have that effect she naturally desired to know it.”

  “Would you mind repeating the conversation?”

  “I can’t do that literally, but it was to the effect that if such were the case, she wished to make a new will, so that her cousin might still be her heir. I told her she could not do this until after she was married, and then she would better confer with her husband in regard to it.”

  “Was she annoyed at this?”

  “Not annoyed; but she was rather surprised at my information.”

  “You think then she wanted Warren Swift to inherit her property?”

  Farrish stared at his questioner. “Why, man alive, of course I think that! How could one think otherwise, after what I have just told you?”

  “One other thing, Mr. Farrish,” broke in Somers, quickly, lest the fiery temper of the detective take umbrage at the lawyer’s scorn, “do you imagine that she asked you about the will at the instigation of Warren Swift?”

  “It may be,” returned Farrish. “She did not say so, but it seems unlikely she would start out on such an errand on her wedding morning, unless strongly influenced in some way.”

 
“But you have told us that young Swift asked you this same question the day before the wedding day.”

  “Did you not?” pursued Ferrall, as Farrish made no response.

  “Certainly I did.”

  “How do you explain that?”

  “My dear sir, I don’t explain it. Why should I? I have told you these things because you have asked me in the name of justice and law, but I am in no way bound to explain them, even if I could do so. However, it does not seem to me that if Mr. Swift wanted to be informed on this subject it was so very strange to ask his cousin to inquire of me. It may seem peculiar that she chose her wedding morning to take up the matter, but surely I am in no way responsible for my clients’ vagaries.”

  “Of course not, Mr. Farrish,” and the District Attorney smiled ingratiatingly; “I thank you for the information you have given us, and trust that if in future we want to ask for more we may have that privilege.”

  “Of course,” and Farrish spoke seriously, “I must tell you anything I can, that will further the ends of justice; but I beg you to remember, gentlemen, that all the parties concerned are my long time friends, and it is hard for me to give out information that might redound to their being unjustly suspected. Now, you must admit, that if young Warren and his cousin had just learned, or heard, that her will would be made void by her marriage, it was most natural that they should inquire about it. For I know the lady wanted her cousin to be her heir,—and that, too, was not surprising, as her husband-to-be is a wealthy man. But all that in no way proves, or even suggests, that the boy murdered his cousin. In fact, it seems to me to point the other way.”

  “But the diamond—” began Somers.

  “I really must ask you to excuse me,” said Farrish, courteously, but decidedly. “I am very busy to-day.”

  * * * *

  “Not a very satisfactory chap,” growled Ferrall, as they left the Country Club grounds.

  “He doesn’t want to chatter,” returned Somers; “I think he knows something he’s holding back. But if we can get on track of it, he’ll tell us. I mean, if we find out the truth, he’ll admit it, but he won’t tell us first, because he’s friends with all those Swift and Bingham people, and he hates to be the one to show them up.”

  The next day, in the District Attorney’s office, the pair summed up what they had learned.

  “No, sir,” Ferrall declared, “young Swift never did it! He hasn’t the force required, he adored his cousin, he knew he wouldn’t inherit, and—and, anyway, I’m just sure he didn’t,” he concluded a little lamely.

  “Then why did he run away? And, too,” went on Somers, eagerly, “remember the scene at the bridegroom’s dinner. Swift wished he were in Bingham’s shoes. That proves, as you say, he adored his cousin. Well, then, he killed her rather than see her the bride of another.”

  “That would be motive enough for some men,—the dashing, reckless sort, who love passionately, desperately, but not for Warry Swift! Why, man, that dinner episode points far more to Bingham than to Swift. I tell you, Somers, that he did not want that girl for his wife, except that he must secure his fortune. He loves somebody else.”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Randall, the girl who was maid of honour.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw some looks that passed between them, and I overheard a few words.”

  “You’re romancing. Have you heard a hint of this from any one else?”

  “Yes. Everson Swift, the bride’s uncle, told me that Bingham had acted queer of late, as if he wanted to back out of the wedding.”

  “Back out of it! Did old man Swift really say that?”

  “Yes, and he even agreed with me, in a cautious, tentative way, that Bingham shot the girl.”

  “Agreed with you? You mean, you forced your opinions down his throat, and he was non-committal!”

  “I don’t mean that at all! Everson Swift hates to suspect the bridegroom as much as any one else would, but he can’t be blind to facts! He knows no one else would benefit by the girl’s death, he knows—”

  “Pshaw! He knows his own son will be suspected, if Bingham isn’t! That’s what made him agree to your theories, if he did agree!”

  “Nothing of the sort. He knows his son isn’t clever or ingenious enough to plan and carry through that crime as it was planned and carried through, and he knows Bingham is. Why, that man is a Machiavelli, you can see it in his very eyes!”

  “And just how did he contrive to shoot the lady in the temple that was turned away from him?”

  “I’m not sure about that, yet. If he had an accomplice, but he’s too clever for that. By Jove! Somers, wait a minute, let me think. Seems to me,—yes,—I’m sure, I’ve heard that people, after they’re shot, keep on for a few seconds with the motions or gestures they were making. Now if he did shoot her, just as she was about to turn, she might have kept on turning, and in the few seconds before she fell dead she might have turned all the way round, or at least far enough to drop her flowers where she did drop them.”

  Somers stared and thought. “I’ve heard something of the sort, I admit. Let’s go and put it up to Doctor Endicott.”

  “Yes,” said the eminent physician, gravely, after his visitors had put the case to him; “given a determined physical impulse, the muscular body follows this impulse, even though a sudden check is met, as of shock, or even mental determination suddenly applied to change the direction of a movement. That is, if a man turns under an impulse, as hearing his name suddenly called from behind, the mere physical movement would continue as to the turning, even though he were called suddenly from the front at an instant after he had started to turn, and even though the mental idea was to turn to the front again.”

  The detective and the District Attorney listened attentively as the doctor went on.

  “I saw this illustrated once, some years ago, at the time of the killing of Jim Pinney. He was walking toward the back of a long room when a man entered the front door and called out, ‘Hello, Jim!’ loudly. Pinney turned suddenly, and received the full charge of a Winchester squarely in the front of his throat. However, so suddenly had he turned, that the movement of turning kept up, even after the shot, and when he fell, it was with his face almost exactly toward the back of the room, or practically directly away from the man who shot him.”

  “That, then, was the case with the bride,” declared Ferrall, with a look of satisfaction. “She had just begun to turn, and was so imbued with the idea of turning, that she continued to turn, after being shot by the bridegroom, and consequently fell, having turned all the way round, with her face to the back of the church.”

  Somers mused. “That would explain a shot in her right temple being fired from the east side of the church,” he agreed; “but how could the bridegroom do such a thing unseen?”

  “There are two ways,” said Ferrall, slowly; “you know Bingham himself admitted having raised his hand to the bride’s head, just before she fell—”

  “What!” exclaimed Dr. Endicott.

  “Yes,” Ferrall went on, “Mr. Kennedy in the choir saw him do this, and Mr. Bingham said he did so in order to adjust a pearl pin that was falling from the lady’s veil.”

  “Fishy story!” observed Somers.

  “I don’t know,” returned Ferrall. “I scarcely think the man shot her then. I think he shot from under cover, an instant later. Perhaps the weapon was hidden by the very folds of the bridal veil.”

  “In that case it was a left-handed shot.”

  “Bingham is ambidextrous, I found that out. But we have our case clear now. Stanford Bingham is our man! His motive, to rid himself of a wife he did not want, save as a means of securing his fortune. His opportunity, shown by the fact that he stood next her, and that it is not only possible but probable that the victim continued to turn after the shot. Further proof, the disappearance of the great diamond, which we shall doubtless find in Bingham’s possession.”

  “But that was his, anyway,” obje
cted Somers.

  “We have no reason to assume that he knew that. Both the bride and her cousin thought it was willed to Swift, as a possession of the testator. Why didn’t Bingham think the same, and take precaution to secure the gem during the excitement at the time? Otherwise, where is it?”

  “We must go to see Bingham,” said Somers, abruptly; “and we must not take up your time further, Doctor.”

  So straight to Stanford Bingham’s house the two men went.

  A man-servant ushered them at once into the library, where Bingham sat at his desk. He rose, looking a little startled, but asked them in cool, even tones to be seated.

  “In a moment,” said Ferrall, whose quick eyes had noted a sudden nervous movement on the part of his host. “May I ask if you have yet recovered the diamond that is missing?”

  “No, I have not,” and Bingham looked straight at the detective.

  “Then, pardon me, Mr. Bingham, then may I look into this ash receiver on your desk?”

  Without waiting for permission, Ferrall overturned a small Japanese ash-bowl, and in the cloudy heap of cigar ashes that fell on the desk was a small, hard object. Dusting it off with his handkerchief, the detective held up between his thumb and forefinger what was undoubtedly the diamond in question!

  “Don’t perjure yourself,” said Ferrall, sternly, as Bingham began to speak. “I saw you drop the stone in the ashes as I entered the room.”

  CHAPTER X

  The Woman at the Window

  STANFORD BINGHAM looked dumfounded. In a confused way he reached for the diamond and Ferrall gave it to him.

  “I understood you to say, Mr. Bingham, that you had not recovered the diamond stolen from your bride on her wedding day.”

  As this was not a direct question Bingham made no answer, and this exasperated the detective beyond endurance. “Did you say that, or did you not?” he thundered.

  “I did,” returned Bingham, who was recovering his poise.

  “And at that moment you were concealing the stone in the ashes of your cigar tray!”