The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Carolyn Wells

  “Assuming that the gem is my own, I have a right to put it where I choose, have I not?”

  “Look here, Mr. Bingham,” interposed Somers, “we want to ask you some questions, and I, for one, would prefer to approach the matter in a calm, practical way. There is no reason for you to tell any falsehoods about that diamond. It is yours, and,—by the way, did you know that it would become your property on the death of your wife, or did you not?”

  Bingham stared at him. “I never gave the subject a thought,” he replied; “but had I done so, I should have supposed that as my wife’s property is all willed to her cousin, her jewels would be included with her other belongings.”

  “That, then,” remarked Ferrall, with a nod of satisfaction, “explains why you secured the gem at the time of your wife’s decease.”

  “What!” and Bingham turned white with anger.

  “Spare us your dramatics, Mr. Bingham,” and Ferrall smiled unpleasantly, “we are here to investigate the death of your wife, and we admit that our suspicions are turned in your direction. Do you own an automatic pistol?”

  “I do not.”

  “Of course you’d deny it, it was a foolish question,” put in Somers. “But, to get at the truth of the matter, did you love the woman you married, Mr. Bingham?”

  Again the tortured man paled, but this time he showed fear rather than anger. “I see no reason why I should answer that question,” he said, after a moment’s pause.

  “Then the fact that you don’t want to answer it, proves that you did not love her,” declared Somers, triumphantly. “If you had, you would have no reason to hesitate.”

  “Of course I loved her,” said Bingham, in a burst of indignation, “otherwise why should I have married her?”

  “To get your patrimony,” said Ferrall, quickly; “is it not true that unless you were married before next month, you would forfeit your inheritance?”

  “It is true.”

  “And to secure that fortune, you married Miss Moulton.”

  “You have no right to say that!” Bingham spoke quietly, but his eyes were blazing. He seemed to be holding himself in leash, but with danger of letting himself go at any minute.

  “Can you deny it?”

  “That I married Miss Moulton to secure my fortune? I certainly do deny it!”

  “I’m sorry to say your denial carries little weight When did you become engaged to the lady?”

  “Nearly a year ago. Last August, to be exact.”

  “And later you endeavoured to break that engagement. Why?”

  “Mr. Somers, I deny your right to ask me these questions! If you accuse me of the murder of my bride, say so, and I will know what course to pursue. But these personal inquiries are unwarranted, and I refuse to listen to them, let alone answering them.”

  “It depends largely on your answering these questions whether we accuse you of the murder or not. We do suspect you, and it is your privilege to decrease or augment our suspicions by your reception and response to these queries. Did you or did you not say at your bachelor dinner, to another man, that you wished he stood in your shoes?”

  “I decline to reply.”

  “Come, come, Mr. Bingham,” broke in Ferrall, “you know we are not trying to incriminate you. We are only trying to find out the truth. If you made that remark, merely meaning that you felt the natural embarrassment of a fashionable and elaborate wedding celebration, why not say so?”

  Bingham looked at the speaker with a slight smile. “I am not such an inexperienced member of the social world, as to be frightened at the formalities of a fashionable wedding,” he retorted. “If I made that remark to a personal friend, I see no reason why I should explain it to a representative of the law, unless I am officially called on to do so.”

  “Your independence of manner is not an aid in establishing your innocence, Mr. Bingham. We have just come from Doctor Endicott’s. He has assured us that the victim of the shot in the church, could have turned entirely around before falling to the floor in her death swoon. This, as you must see, would make it possible for you to have fired that shot.”

  “My God!” exclaimed Bingham, sitting upright and clenching his hands; “you dare accuse me of that!”

  “We dare accuse you, Mr. Bingham, because you had motive and opportunity; indeed, it may almost be said, you had exclusive opportunity. You admit raising your hand to the lady’s head to adjust a veil pin. At that moment, you might easily have fired a soundless, smokeless, automatic and,—the next moment the bride sank to the floor.”

  “But,—but,—” stammered Bingham, “how could—how could I? Why, at that moment, I had just shaken hands with the minister who married us. I was speaking to him when,—when Ethel fell.”

  “You are known to be ambidextrous, Mr. Bingham. You could have fired with your left hand, as you adjusted the lady’s veil. In the noise and excitement of the organ music and the conclusion of the ceremony, no one was noticing you. All eyes were on the bride. Who else had any cause to wish the lady out of existence? Who else had a motive for wishing her dead?”

  “You put very painful questions to me, but since you do ask them, I will go so far as to remind you that the—the lady I married had many admirers. She had refused, to my certain knowledge, several men of this town and elsewhere. Is there no ground for suspecting some disappointed and desperate suitor?”

  “All very well, if you can suggest the man, and show that he had opportunity.”

  “Any one in the church had as much opportunity as I did.”

  “But not an equal motive. You must admit, that even if a disappointed suitor was so desperate as to want to kill the lady, he would scarcely choose such a spectacular occasion as at her wedding altar.”

  Bingham shrugged his shoulders. “Such arguments apply equally well to myself. Why should I choose the spectacular occasion?”

  “Because for you it was a safer chance. Who could believe that a bridegroom could be capable of such an act?”

  “Who, indeed!” agreed Bingham; “as you say it is preposterous! Unbelievable! And with no proof of any sort, you have no right to suspect me or to imply my guilt. The Coroner’s jury returned an open verdict. What further evidence have you than they possessed?”

  “It is that evidence that we are trying to get,” answered Somers, gravely. “If you are an innocent man, Mr. Bingham, why are you so little concerned in the discovery of your bride’s murderer?”

  “I am not unconcerned,” and Bingham spoke almost flippantly; “I shall be very glad, indeed, to see the criminal brought to justice, and I regret that I can in no way help you to find him.”

  But the man’s words failed to carry conviction to his hearers. Tall and handsome, Stanford Bingham stood before them, coldly courteous, but unmistakably waiting for them to go. His utter indifference to their mission only strengthened their suspicions of his implication in the tragedy, if not his actual guilt

  “One more question,” said Ferrall, speaking sternly; “I ask you if that diamond on the table before you is not the one that hung round the neck of your bride at her wedding?”

  Bingham stood silent a moment. He looked at the great gem blazing on the table beneath the electric reading lamp, and then he looked at the detective. “No,” said he, after a moment; “no, Mr. Ferrall, it is not.”

  “Do I then conclude,” asked the detective, sarcastically, “that you are the fortunate possessor of two such magnificent stones?”

  “You conclude whatever you choose,” said Bingham, calmly, and after conventional goodnights, the visitors left him.

  “Can’t get a thing out of him,” said Somers, as they walked away. “But I don’t understand that diamond business. Of course, he lied; of course it is the wedding diamond, but as it is surely his own, why does he deny it? Why pretend that he has two of them? Of course he hasn’t; if he had he would have given both as the wedding gift.”

  “That isn’t necessarily so,” objected Ferrall, “but if he had two he would
have had no reason to hide that one in the ash tray, when we entered unexpectedly. That diamond business is the most mysterious thing about the case.”

  “Indeed it isn’t; the identity of the murderer is that. The unique and inexplicable circumstances of the murder make it just about impossible to get any definite evidence. If anybody had seen anybody shoot, we would probably have heard of it before this. It will doubtless go down in history as one of the never solved mysteries.”

  “It shan’t do that, if I can prevent,” declared Ferrall, vehemently. “I’m not ready to lay down on the case yet. I have a hunch that Bingham is the murderer. I’ve been fairly sure of it all along, and after seeing him to-night, I’m more convinced than ever.”

  “Hunches and being convinced don’t get you anywhere. Evidence, man, that’s what we want. And we haven’t a shred, against anybody! No weapon, no witnesses that can tell anything, no accusations, no reason, in fact, to suspect any mortal, human being. If that shot had been fired by a supernatural agency, it couldn’t have been more mysterious!”

  “But it wasn’t fired by a supernatural agency, it was fired by a flesh and blood human hand, and I shall never rest till I find out whose. And I tell you it was Stanford Bingham’s! Why, the way he acts proves it. If he were guilty of that murder, to insure himself his patrimony, wouldn’t he act exactly as he does? Wouldn’t he simply deny in a calm, unconcerned way, and not rouse suspicion by emphatic denials? He’s a cute one, Bingham is, and only a mighty cute one could have pulled off the affair. Oh, these thoroughbreds, these aristocrats, have brains, and brains are much needed in the business of a first-class criminal!”

  “That’s all true,” agreed Somers, thoughtfully, “and there are points against Bingham. What can we do next?”

  “It may be a wild-goose chase, but I’m for going to see that coloured woman who told of seeing a red-headed man with a handkerchief over his hand, in the church. He might have been Bingham’s accomplice.”

  “Rubbish! That Charlotte is not a reliable witness.”

  “Why isn’t she? Anyway, I’m going to question her. Outside of Bingham, there’s no one to suspect, unless it might be a rejected suitor of the bride’s. There were plenty of those, from all I can gather.”

  “Yes; Miss Moulton was a heart-breaker. A regular flirt, I’m told.”

  “More than that. She was engaged consecutively to several men, and she refused Lord knows how many others! Small wonder Bingham didn’t want her for a wife, except to insure his fortune!”

  “Don’t say those things, Ferrall. Even if they’re true, have a little respect for the dead.”

  Ferrall stared. “Got to do my duty,” he returned, gruffly. “If the lady’s coquettish tendencies brought about her death by some love-crazed swain, and if the discovery of it will liberate the bridegroom from suspicion, surely it ought to be tracked down! Will you go with me to see the black Charlotte?”

  “No; I’ve an engagement. Go on, yourself, and tell me to-morrow what you learn.”

  That evening Ferrall went on alone to the home of Eileen Randall, where Charlotte was employed. The negress herself opened the door, and as Ferrall told her that he wished to talk to her alone, she led him to the kitchen.

  With few preliminary words he asked her concerning the red-headed man she had noticed at the wedding.

  “Laws, suh, I done foun’ out long ago who dat man was. He was on’y de ‘sistant clerk ob Mistah Kaber, de druggist, an’ he done cut his hand with a busted bottle de day befoh. I hunted out all dat, an’ so I know he hadn’t noffin’ to do with Miss Ethel’s muhduh. Dat he hadn’t!”

  “Very well, Charlotte. Now, listen. You were outside the church, and might have seen something invisible to those inside. We have concluded now, that the shot was fired from the other side, the west side—”

  “Laws-a-goodness, suh, den it was dat woman!” Charlotte’s eyes rolled fearfully and she rocked back and forth in her excitement.

  “What woman? Be careful to tell only the truth, Charlotte.”

  “Yas, suh; only de troot’! Mr. Ferrall, I seen a woman at de window opp’site de one I was a-lookin’ in—”

  “You mean you saw her at the first window on the west side?”

  “Yes, suh, de front one, nearest de altar, on de west side; an’ she jest glared at Miss Ethel all thoo de ce’mony. An’ she had a long, capey kind o’ garment, like it was a ottermobil cloak, an’ she kep’ it wrop’ ‘roun’ her, like’s if she was cold, w’ich ob co’se she couldn’t ‘a’ been. An’ after Miss Ethel done fell ober, dat woman picked up her skirts and ran like de debbil!”

  “Where to?”

  “Right out towa’d de front gate, an’ she jumped into a big motor cah, an’ dey scooted off like de wind!”

  The recital was dramatic, so much so that Ferrall had doubts of its entire truth. But questioning failed to shake Charlotte’s story in any detail. She avowed that it all happened exactly as she had related, and said she had not told of it before because she had been told that the shot was fired from the east side and she knew that in that case the woman she saw could not have fired it.

  “How did you happen to pay so much attention to this strange woman when there was so much going on inside the church?”

  “Well, suh, I’d been a-noticin’ ob huh all along; an’ den when dey all began to crowd ‘roun’ Miss Ethel, and hollah an’ cry, I couldn’t see nothin’ much inside, an’ I ran ‘roun’ to de front do’ to try to get in de chu’ch, an’ den was w’en I seen de woman gettin’ in de cah in such a hurry.”

  “Who was in the car?”

  “Dere was a chuffer an’ anudder man. Dey was all strangers to me, suh, an’ I don’t believe dat cah b’longed in town, ‘cause I knows most ob de swell cahs, suh. I’se mighty observin’, I alius was, suh, an’ I most gen’ally notices all what’s goin’ on.”

  “What did this woman look like?”

  “Well, suh,” and Charlotte’s eyes rolled in satisfaction at being allowed to launch into description, “she was a lady what has been a ravin’ beauty, suh. An’ she’s some beautiful still, but she’s been too gay, suh, too gay, dat’s what she’s been!”

  “Describe her briefly,” and Ferrall frowned at Charlotte’s verbosity.

  “Yes, suh. She had big black eyes dat shet up most to slits w’en she looked at Miss Ethel; she had black hair, but all I could see ob dat was what was plastered down ober her years. Den she had a peart, bright little face with rosy cheeks and ‘ceedingly red lips, too red altogether for a decent woman. ‘Pon my soul, Mr. Ferrall, I t’ink dat woman was a chorus girl! I’ve seen dat sort on de stage an’ off, an’ she jest looked like dat was what she was!”

  “You didn’t see her shoot?”

  “Laws, no, suh; if I had I’d ‘a’ told you long ago! But bein’ a stranger an’ a sinner,—oh, yas, suh, she was a sinner!—why ain’t she de li’l piece ob wickedness what shot our Miss Ethel?”

  “We’ll look into the matter, Charlotte, and meanwhile, don’t say a word about it to any one. Did you have full view of Mr. Bingham during the ceremony?”

  “Yas, suh, I sho’ did. Mighty han’some he looked, po’ man!”

  “Yes, Mr. Bingham is a fine man. Everybody likes him, don’t they?”

  “Yes, suh.” Charlotte had become suddenly laconic.

  “Even your young mistress admires him, eh?”

  “I dunno ‘bout Miss Eileen, but laws’ sakes! How Mr. Bingham does admire huh!”

  “They’re old friends?” Ferrall was quietly insinuating, and chose his words with infinite care.

  “Not so berry old friends. Lessee, de Randalls on’y came here to lib last September, w’en de school year begun in de ‘cademy; an’ Mr. Bingham, he nebber saw Miss Eileen till after dat.”

  “Love at first sight?”

  “Mighty near it! I thought for sure Miss Eileen was goin’ to cut Miss Ethel out wid dat man, but she didn’t. Miss Ethel, she wouldn’t let him go. Yo’ see, suh—”


  “Charlotte! What are you talking about? Mr. Ferrall, what are you doing here?”

  Eileen Randall appeared in the doorway, with a face like a thundercloud.

  “What does this mean?” she went on; “Charlotte, go to your room; Mr. Ferrall, come with me!”

  CHAPTER XI

  The Woman the Bridegroom Loved

  STILL frowning, Eileen led the way to the library, where her father sat at his desk. He rose, as his daughter and the detective entered, and bowed courteously to the visitor.

  “I found Mr. Ferrall in the kitchen, quizzing Charlotte!” exclaimed Eileen. “What do you think of that?”

  Doctor Randall smiled. “There, there, my dear, don’t excite yourself. Detectives must use every possible means of getting the information they seek.”

  “Good for you, Doctor Randall!” said Ferrall; “I felt sure you would understand. Miss Randall took umbrage at my unconventional call on her servant, but I am sure she will forgive me in the interests of justice.”

  Eileen said nothing, but continued to look coldly disapproving.

  “Be seated, Mr. Ferrall,” went on the Professor, “and tell me what you have done in the matter of the crime.”

  “We have done very little,” confessed Ferrall, ruefully; “it seems impossible to get any clues or evidence of any sort. Your black servant has told me of a mysterious woman, whom she observed on the day of the wedding, but I scarcely dare hope for any great developments from the information.”

  Doctor Randall’s eyes twinkled. “But if you are a detective, Mr. Ferrall, ought you not to take this or any other hint, and go straight to the heart of the mystery?”

  “Oh, I’m not one of those story-book detectives, who look at a victim’s wound and immediately say, ‘The criminal is a dark-haired man with a cast in his left eye, and a tendency to asthma!’ I can read a clue with the next one, but I must have the clue. In this case we have no clues, absolutely none.”

  “And yet,” said Doctor Randall, musingly, “these deductive feats, that you satirize, are merely the result of using common sense and common observation. The more you study them, the less marvellous they seem. Indeed, to me, the wonder is, that a detective can fail to deduce the dark-haired and asthmatic criminal.”