“You are pleased to belittle my powers, sir,” said Ferrall, trying to hide his anger; “could you suggest, perhaps, a direction in which to look for these illuminating clues?”
“I am not a detective, but I am a scientist, a professor of psychology, and as such, I have learned to realize what an exact science criminal investigation has come to be. It all rests on facts. There is no room for unsupported theories or imaginative solutions. Here, for instance, in this case, you have the fact of the murder of Ethel Bingham. You have the fact that she was shot. You have the fact that she was shot in her right temple. You have yet to find the fact of the criminal’s identity. But with a systematized study of these known facts, you should be able to find the unknown one.”
“Could you do this, sir?” and Ferrall tried hard to keep the sarcastic note out of his voice.
“No; certainly not. I am not a detective. A detective, worthy of the name, must have a comprehensive, exhaustive knowledge of everything pertaining to crime. Not only must he have complete familiarity with every sort of firearm or burglar’s tool, but he must have an infinite knowledge of the psychology of the criminal mind, and be able to follow its working as accurately as if reading a printed book. You’re a professional detective, Mr. Ferrall, and a good one, but you’re not a scientific one.”
“No, sir, I don’t lay claim to psychological hocus-pocus, and—”
“Wait a minute, my dear sir. Only those ignorant of psychology apply to it such terms as ‘hocus-pocus.’ It merely shows their unfamiliarity with the science, and in no way redounds to their credit. Now, as you yourself say there are no clues in the case we speak of, I will assert that there are clues, but they are all psychological ones, and so have been invisible to you.”
“Will you, then, kindly show them to me, Doctor Randall?”
Again Ferrall choked down his wrath at his host’s attitude, in the hope of learning something of use to himself.
“Don’t, father,” broke in Eileen, laying her hand on her father’s arm. “You are not a detective, and all your visionary reasoning will only hamper Mr. Ferrall, without in any way helping him.”
“Don’t be alarmed, my dear. Though I would gladly help Mr. Ferrall, I cannot do so, for, as I have said, I am not a detective. No one can be, without giving years to the profound study of one of the greatest of all sciences, psychology of criminalistics.”
“You incline to long words, Doctor Randall,” said Ferrall, smiling.
“They are necessary if there are no shorter ones for the purpose,” returned the Professor testily. “Most so-called detectives have no technique, no system. They know nothing of the impulses that urge or force the criminal to his deeds. They know nothing of the established facts of applied psychology, and what little they hear of them they scorn, thinking thereby to show superiority when really they only expose their ignorance. Had I not shaped my career along other lines, I would have been a detective, for the work fascinates me. But other departments of psychology have claimed my attention, and I have merely noted in passing the wonderful connection between mental processes and criminal impulse.”
Now Ferrall took very little stock in this sort of talk, but he determined to get some help from the Professor, if possible, and he turned to definite propositions and repeated what the coloured woman had told him.
Doctor Randall listened attentively, and then said, “But there you are again, Mr. Ferrall. The true detective knows the truth when he hears it. This is not a supernatural faculty, nor is it intuition or clairvoyance, it is merely experience and study. He must know thoroughly how prone human beings are to lie unconsciously. He must realize the impossibility of exact truth telling. Distorted perceptions, lack of a sense of values, uncontrollable emotions, all of these and scores of other influences preclude truth telling, even from those most eager to be veracious. And trained appraisal of these influences is absolutely necessary to a scientific detective.”
“Then you make out my case hopeless, Doctor,” and Ferrall spoke with a forced jocularity.
But the older man took his speech seriously. “I fear so, Mr. Ferrall. The case of Ethel Bingham can never be solved without the application of the highest type of scientific and psychologic knowledge brought to bear on its mysteries.”
“And as that can’t be done,” said Eileen, “we must be content to let the mystery remain unsolved and the name of the criminal unrevealed. I hope, however, Mr. Ferrall, you will pay no attention to our Charlotte’s story. Like all her race, she is imaginative and fanciful. She is inclined often to invent dramatic incidents for the sake of creating a sensation, and I feel sure she has done so in this case. I am convinced, myself, that it would be better to drop the whole matter, for a suspicion directed toward an innocent person would be worse than no suspicion at all.”
“Eileen,” said her father, looking at her in mild surprise, “why are you taking this attitude? To me it sounds as if you had some hidden reason for wanting the investigations discontinued.”
Eileen Randall was accustomed, and had been accustomed all her life to having her father make embarrassing remarks, based on his reading of her thoughts, but in this instance she showed plainly her chagrin and dismay.
Ferrall seized the opportunity. “Yes, Miss Randall,” he said, “one would think you were afraid of suspicion resting on some one dear to you.”
“How absurd,” began Eileen, her cheeks flaming, but Ferrall went relentlessly on: “I feel it my duty to tell you, in this connection, that very grave suspicions are directed toward Mr. Stanford Bingham.”
It was one of Ferrell’s favourite methods to come out suddenly with a disconcerting statement, and watch for its effects. He was not disappointed. Eileen Randall turned ghastly white and giving a sharp cry of pain, covered her face with her hands.
“Bingham!” exclaimed Doctor Randall. “Nonsense! I know that man too well to consider such a thing for a moment. Why, he’s a fine man! It doesn’t require much psychological instinct to know that any suspicion in that direction is rubbish! Absolute rubbish, Mr. Ferrall!”
“Then why is your daughter so unnerved over the mere suggestion?”
“Eh? Unnerved? Are you, Eileen? But that is only natural. Bingham is a great friend of both my daughter and myself. We have known him ever since we came to this town. Last fall, I came here to take the chair of Psychology in the Hillside School, and Bingham was one of the first friends we made, and has proved one of the best. Stanford Bingham a criminal? Never!”
“I’m afraid your friendship influences your judgment, Doctor Randall;” and Ferrall rose to go. “And I’m afraid, too, that we can’t secure the services of the sort of transcendent detective you talk about. We’ll just have to get along with our own tried and trusty force. But I thank you for this interview. I have learned quite a deal from it, I assure you.”
Eileen followed the detective to the door.
“Mr. Ferrall,” she said, “have you any definite evidence against Stanford Bingham?”
Ferrall looked at her, searchingly. “Have you?” he said.
“Wha—what do you mean?” and the haughty head drooped and the slight form shivered as Eileen Randall glanced up at the detective with fear in her dark eyes.
“I mean that you have answered my question,” said the detective, in a low, exultant tone, as he went down the steps.
Eileen went back to the library. Her father had returned to his interrupted reading, and from his absorbed attitude had apparently forgotten his late visitor. Eileen looked at him and was about to speak, then, changing her mind, she went out into the hall and walked slowly toward a back alcove where a telephone stood. Hesitating at first, and then with an air of decision, she called a number and soon Stanford Bingham answered her.
“I must see you at once,” said Eileen. “Can you come here?”
“Certainly. At once. Good-bye.”
Eileen hung up the receiver, and paced up and down the hall, waiting.
When she heard Bingha
m’s step on the porch she opened the door herself.
“Come in,” she said. “Come into the reception-room. Father is reading in the library, he cannot hear us, and I—I must talk to you.”
“What is it, Eileen? What is it,—darling!”
“Oh, don’t! Don’t call me that!”
“Why not, sweetheart? You are mine, now. There is no reason any more why you can’t be! After this dreadful affair blows over everybody shall know that you belong to me.”
In the dim light of the small reception-room, Bingham took the trembling girl in his arms, and held her close. “Dear heart,” he whispered, “what is it? What is troubling you?”
“I can’t tell you, it seems too wicked to put into words! But they—”
“They suspect me of Ethel’s murder? Is that it?”
“Yes! That horrid detective has been here and he says—”
“Well, what does he say?”
“He doesn’t say anything definite, but he insinuates, and hints, and implies,—that you—that we—”
“Eileen! Does he say that I love you!”
“That’s what I mean. He acts as if I—I were trying to shield you from—from suspicion because —I love you.”
“And aren’t you?” Bingham spoke very softly and his arms tightened round the quivering shoulders of the girl.
“Yes, of course I am! But it’s such an unjust suspicion! You didn’t do it, how can they charge you with it?”
“How do you know I didn’t do it?”
“What a question! I know because I love you. I couldn’t love you if you were wicked!”
“Couldn’t you?” and the low whisper was intense and persuasive.
“Yes!” and Eileen flung her arms round his neck in a mad embrace. “Yes, I should love you if you were the worst criminal on earth! Now, are you satisfied! But I know you only said that to test me! Stan, who did kill Ethel?”
“I don’t know, darling, and since I have you, nothing else matters. Don’t think me a brute, Eileen, but you know, oh, darling, you know, how I hated to marry her!”
“Yet you would go through with it.”
“How could I help it? She wouldn’t let me off; I tried every means to persuade her. I couldn’t be such a cad as to refuse to marry her after our long engagement. I didn’t deceive her. She knew I cared for you, but she wouldn’t give me up.”
“I know. She was bound to marry you, but she didn’t love you, Stan. Not as I do.”
“No, dearest, she didn’t. Oh, Eileen, be patient with me! I am in a fearful position. Everybody knows I love you, and that I didn’t love Ethel, and so—”
“And so they think you killed her. You didn’t, did you, Stan?”
“Don’t ask me, Eileen! Promise me you will never ask me that question!”
Startled at the vehemence in his voice, Eileen raised her head from Bingham’s shoulder to look in his face. He was deathly pale, and his dark eyes were blazing. The girl felt as if a cold hand clutched at her heart. But she looked straight into his eyes. “No,” she said, “no, I will never ask you. I know you didn’t,—but, if you did,—it was for me.”
“Yes,—if I did, it was for you.” Bingham spoke almost solemnly, and Eileen shuddered in his arms. “Oh, Stan,” she moaned, “don’t! I can’t bear it! Tell me the truth, whatever it may be!”
“Hush, dear; you promised not to ask that. Keep your faith in me, though no one else in all the world does. Won’t you?”
“Yes, I will,” said Eileen, and she raised her beautiful face to Bingham’s with a look of uttermost faith and trust.
CHAPTER XII
Two Telegrams
A COUPLE of days later, Guy Farrish was surprised to receive a call from Eileen Randall at his office.
Courteously he greeted her, gave her a chair, and then waited for her to announce her errand.
She hesitated before speaking, but the lawyer felt no impatience as he sat watching the girl before him. In a dainty summer costume of pale buff linen, with a hat to match, Eileen’s dark beauty was further enhanced by a cluster of scarlet geranium at her belt and a duplicate cluster in artificial flowers on her hat. A little nervously she played with her buff parasol, and then, in a sudden burst of determination, she said: “Mr. Farrish, will you please tell me anything you know about the murder of Ethel Moulton?”
Farrish looked at her in astonishment.
“What can I tell you, Miss Randall,” he said, “that you do not know already? Have you not talked with the District Attorney?”
“Yes, and with Mr. Ferrall. But they know very little, positively. As Ethel’s lawyer, I hoped you could tell me something about her personally, that would help me in this matter. For I am trying to do a little detective work myself,” Eileen smiled winsomely, “and I so hoped you could help me.”
“I wish I might,” said Farrish, gazing at her admiringly, “but though you call me Miss Moulton’s lawyer, I really did very little for her in a legal way. Of course, she had but few occasions to use my services. I am the lawyer of the Swift family, but even the men of the house rarely have any work for me. In what way did you think I could give you information?”
“In no definite way, I’m afraid. But I thought often lawyers knew secrets about their clients that other people didn’t know—”
“And that they were willing to divulge such secrets!”
“Why, yes, if it were in the interests of justice.” Eileen’s big, dark eyes shone, and her beautiful eager face came a trifle nearer to the lawyer’s own. The girl was well aware of her powers of fascination, and voluntarily endeavoured to charm Guy Farrish into a confidence. “I don’t know exactly what I want you to tell me, but I do want to know if you know anything of Ethel’s private affairs?”
“You probably know, Miss Randall,” Farrish said, slowly, “that at one time Ethel Moulton and I were very good friends.”
“Of course I know that! Why, I have been told that two years ago everybody said you were engaged to her, But, we all know what Ethel was. A born flirt, an insatiable coquette, a girl who was engaged to one man one week, and another the next.”
“Don’t speak too lightly of her, please. She was of a butterfly nature, and so fond of admiration that she drifted into affairs—and out of them with equal ease. However, Miss Randall, if in my own acquaintance with her I learned anything of a confidential nature, you can’t expect me to tell of it now, can you?”
“Yes, if it will cast any light on the mystery of her death.”
“Is that a mystery?”
“Of course it is! Whom do you suspect as the criminal?”
“I don’t care to say. But who had reason for desiring her death? Who was near enough to her at the fatal moment to commit the deed unobserved? Who—”
“Stop, Mr. Farrish! I know to whom you refer, and I tell you that Stanford Bingham is as innocent of that crime as you or I. He couldn’t do it! He is too fine, too noble a nature! Too clean of heart, and—”
“Stop, Miss Randall! Try to realize that to my experienced ear your assertions are too emphatic to be sincere. They sound rather like the protestations of one who is trying to convince another of what she does not believe herself!”
Eileen’s face went white. Her fingers tensely strained themselves round her parasol handle, and her breath came quickly.
“You are a keen observer, Mr. Farrish,” she said, controlling herself with an effort. “I will tell you frankly what I have learned myself. I have just come from the Swifts’ house, and while there I looked through some of Ethel’s papers and letters. I found these two telegrams that arrived the morning of her wedding.”
“Brides usually receive a lot of telegrams, do they not?”
“Yes; but read these.”
Farrish took the two papers and looked them over with a perplexed glance. One read: “Word my will wedding with go if I remember.”
And the other: “Sworn keep I this through you vowed what.”
“Some Sort of a joke?�
�� he asked, looking inquiringly at Eileen.
“I thought so at first. But I showed them to my father, and he solved the mysterious messages.”
“Oh, is it a puzzle? A cryptogram?” and Farrish again pondered over the ambiguous words.
“Not exactly that, but it conveys a concealed warning. I have brought it to you because I hate to give it to the police. I hoped you could help me find out where it came from.”
“If you know what it means, tell me, please. I am not always quick at deciphering enigmas.”
“Nor I. But my father is very clever at it, and he had looked at these but a moment when he read them intelligibly. See, you must read the words alternately and backward. Begin at ‘Remember,’ and going backward, take first one paper, then the other.”
Slowly, Farrish read as she directed. His eyes stared in horror as he enunciated the message: “Remember what I vowed. If you go through with this wedding I will keep my sworn word.”
“Do you believe,” he said, slowly, “that this message was sent to Ethel by the—by the man who killed her?”
“Yes, by the man or woman who killed her.”
“What do you mean by that?”
And then Eileen told of Charlotte’s story of the woman looking in at the west window of the church.
Farrish listened attentively. “Describe the woman again,” he said, briefly.
“Dark and beautiful, but from Charlotte’s account, ‘fast’-looking. Intensely black eyes and hair, and a wicked expression.”
“There is a possibility, Miss Randall, that such a woman was there, that she sent these extraordinary telegrams and that she committed the murder. But how could one go about it to find her? Your servant says she was no resident of this town. If she came up from New York,—I see the telegrams are from that city,—we surely have no clue to her identity.”
“That’s what I came to ask you. I hoped you might know of some such person who was an enemy of Ethel’s. I hate to put this matter in the hands of the police, they bungle everything so. Do you think I ought to, Mr. Farrish?”
The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK® Page 10