The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Carolyn Wells

  “If you look at me so persuasively, Miss Randall, I shall not be able to give you an unbiased answer. If you choose to destroy those telegrams, you may rest assured I shall never disclose their existence.”

  “But I don’t want to do that! I want their sender hunted down and convicted! I’m sure the murderer sent them, and they must be traced.”

  “But, pardon me if I pain you, Miss Randall, what if they were sent by—by the one who—”

  “Oh!” Eileen gave a low moan. “You don’t, you can’t mean Stanford! Say you didn’t mean that!”

  “I mean nothing that you don’t want me to mean. But, you must see that others,—the police, for instance,—might take it to be his work.”

  “But it is absurd!”

  “Not to an unprejudiced mind.” Farrish looked again at the telegrams. “Be frank, please. Don’t you know that Bingham went to that altar unwillingly?”

  Eileen flushed, but she bowed a slow assent.

  “Don’t you know that Miss Moulton practically forced him to keep his part of their marriage compact?”

  “How do you know this?” and Eileen’s eyes dilated wide with fear at this disclosure of her own secrets.

  “You came here to ask me if I knew any secrets of Ethel Moulton’s. I know that she wouldn’t free the man she married from his promise, although he wished her to, in order that he might marry—”

  “Don’t! Oh, don’t, Mr. Farrish! I don’t know how you know these things!”

  “Lawyers know many secrets. Now, Miss Randall, don’t be alarmed; you may trust me not to reveal the state of things between Bingham and yourself. But you must see that these telegrams could just as plausibly be ascribed to the bridegroom of that unfortunate wedding, as to any one else. Just for a moment lay aside your own sympathies and look at the case. Indeed, if you are going to do anything in the matter, you must look at it impersonally. Here we have an unwilling bridegroom. We have these telegrams anonymously sent. Then we have the tragedy. Is it not obvious that Bingham might have married the lady to secure the fortune that could be his in no other way, and then have her put out of his life by a desperate means, only possible because of his great desire not to have her for his wife, when—he—loved another?”

  Across Eileen’s mind flashed Bingham’s words, “If I did it, I did it for you.”

  With an agonized face she gazed at Farrish. “I cannot believe it,” she murmured. “I shall never believe it.”

  “Of course not. We cannot believe ill of those we love. But do you not agree with me that it would be better to suppress those telegrams and say nothing that might direct further suspicion Bingham’s way?”

  “It may be so.”

  “If you let it alone, the suspicion may die down. After the open verdict of the Coroner’s jury, and the entire lack of definite evidence, the police have so little to work on they will be obliged to drop the case.”

  “But if it should have been that woman Charlotte saw! She calls her ‘a little piece of wickedness.’ Perhaps the shot was intended for Stanford himself.”

  “Then that only opens up unpleasant chapters in Bingham’s life. Do you want to do that? And, too, I am sure you can never trace that vague, semi-mythical woman, probably existing only in your servant’s imagination.”

  “Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Farrish, that it might have been Warry Swift, after all? I hate to say this, but Warry is a queer sort of nature, and I could believe it of him far easier than of a man like Stanford Bingham.”

  “So could I. And Swift’s sudden disappearance is against him.”

  “But he’s home again, now.”

  “Is he? When did he return, and what does he say?”

  “He came back on Tuesday. He says he went to track down a clue, but it amounted to nothing. The police don’t suspect him any more, because they’ve proved that Ethel could have turned after she was shot, and so they’re bound to prove it was Mr. Bingham.”

  “That is why I advise you, as a friend, if you’re anxious to protect Bingham, don’t show those telegrams. They’re dangerous weapons in the hands of the District Attorney.”

  “Do you know, Mr. Farrish, what I’ve just about determined to do? I’m going to send for a friend of my father’s, who is a wonderful scientific detective. He can get at the truth of any case.”

  “And you want the truth revealed?”

  “Yes, I do! I am so sure of Stanford’s innocence that I am willing to have the matter probed to the utmost. I am going to try to get Alan Ford.”

  “Alan Ford! Don’t do it! Miss Randall, you are sounding the death knell of Stanford Bingham if you get Ford!”

  Eileen, who had risen to go, clutched at her chair back. “You mean—” she faltered.

  “I mean that Alan Ford is the greatest detective I know of. I mean he will go straight to the heart of this mystery and solve it. And I mean that he will prove beyond all shadow of doubt that Stanford Bingham shot the woman he had just married, in order to secure a fortune!”

  Eileen dropped back into the chair. “Please, Mr. Farrish,” she begged, “don’t say that! You don’t really believe—”

  “I prefer not to say what I believe. But I tell you if Alan Ford takes up this case, the truth will come out, and if you have any reason to fear the truth, don’t put it in that man’s hands! I haven’t voiced my suspicions definitely, because I don’t want to hurt you, but I beg of you, Eileen,—Miss Randall, don’t, as you value your peace of mind, don’t send for Ford.”

  “Is he so clever, then?”

  “He’s more than clever. He’s a magician! He learns truths where others see no hint, no clue. Why not let the matter rest?”

  “Perhaps I will. I cannot say now. I am too unstrung. You have frightened me, Mr. Farrish. I will go now, but may I come and see you again about these matters?”

  “Surely! Come whenever you like. I will always see you. I am always glad to see you.”

  Farrish’s tone was a shade too warm to suit Eileen’s taste, but she was accustomed to being admired, and rarely met a man who remained unmoved at her beauty and charm.

  She hurried home and found Bingham there talking to her father.

  “I’ve been to see Mr. Farrish,” she said, as she entered the library where the two men sat.

  “Guy Farrish!” exclaimed Bingham; “what for?”

  “I wanted to see if he knew anything about Ethel’s past.”

  “Ethel’s past! You talk as if she were notorious!”

  “No, not that,” and Eileen spoke very gently; “but there is much in her life that we don’t know about, and as the family lawyer, I thought Mr. Farrish might give me some information.”

  “And did he?” asked Doctor Randall.

  “Not definitely. But he set me thinking. And, father, I’ve decided that I want you to ask that friend of yours, Alan Ford, to come here for a few days, whether he takes up the case professionally or not.”

  “Ford, the detective!” exclaimed Bingham. “Oh, don’t do that!”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Not personally; but I know of him. Everybody does. Don’t get him, Eileen.”

  “Why not?” and the girl gazed calmly at Bingham.

  “Because, oh, because—I’m afraid to have him come.”

  “Afraid he’ll find out the truth?”

  “Yes!” and Bingham’s eyes flashed with angry fire. “You know where suspicions are directed. Do you want to bring more trouble on—”

  Bingham stopped abruptly. “Do as you like,” he said in a hard voice, and turning on his heel he left the house and walked rapidly down the pathway. Eileen ran after him.

  “Come in here,” she said, gently, urging him toward a small arbour on the lawn. “Now, tell me, Stan, whom are you shielding? I know very well you are not afraid of Mr. Ford’s investigation, and I know you are fearful for some one else. Who is it? Warry Swift?”

  Stanford Bingham took Eileen’s face in his two hands. He looked deep into her eyes. For
a long moment he gazed hungrily at her, and then with a deep sigh, he said, “Eileen—Sweetheart,—don’t send for that man. If you do, I will be convicted of Ethel’s murder as sure as there is a heaven above us! Don’t do it, I beg of you.”

  With a convulsive movement, Bingham drew her to him, and kissed her passionately on the lips, and then, almost flinging her from him, he left her and walked rapidly away.

  After a time Eileen returned to the house and sought her father.

  “Do you suppose,” she said, “that Mr. Ford could really find out the truth?”

  “I am sure of it,” returned the Professor, positively. “You see, Eileen, he is of a different calibre from these local detectives.”

  “You don’t think Stan did it, father?”

  “Not in a thousand years! Why, Eileen, my entire experience in psychology is all wrong if that man is a criminal! He can’t be! It isn’t in him!”

  “But, sometimes, under great stress of circumstances, mightn’t a man who was not of criminal instinct commit a crime,—a sort of sporadic instance, you know—”

  “Not Bingham! I’d stake my reputation on that!”

  “Then, father, let’s send for Mr. Ford.”

  “I’ll be glad to, Eileen. It will be most interesting to see him at work.”

  “Do you think he will come?”

  “If he possibly can, he will. We are old friends and he would do for me what he would do for few others.”

  “But, father, if he should prove Stanford guilty—if he should mistakenly think him so—”

  “Alan Ford has no mistaken thoughts. If he proves Stanford Bingham killed his bride, it will be the truth. But, Eileen, he won’t prove that.”

  “And will he find out who did do it?”

  “He will. Or, if not, it will be his first failure. I’ll write him to-night. I’ll ask him to come for a friendly visit, and then we’ll await developments.”

  “And, father, if he does—if he should think Stanford is—is implicated, can we ask him to drop the case?”

  “That depends. He won’t drop it if he thinks he’s on track of the criminal! But don’t be alarmed, Puss; there’s no danger of his suspecting Bingham, for Bingham is innocent. Mark my word for that!”

  But Eileen went away with an agonizing fear at her heart. What if her father should be mistaken in his opinion of Bingham? It was only the opinion of a somewhat erratic psychologist, who was often over sure of himself. And both Bingham and Farrish had urged her not to let Alan Ford come. She pondered long, and then, with sudden decision, she resolved to intercept the letter her father should write and never allow it to be sent

  CHAPTER XIII

  Alan Ford

  BUT Professor Randall himself posted his letter to Alan Ford, and Eileen had not her expected chance to intercept it.

  And Ford came. An old friend of the Professor’s, he was glad to oblige him, and too, the case, as he had heard of it, presented unusual characteristics, and he was not averse to investigating it.

  Entering the little library where Eileen and her father awaited him, Ford’s presence seemed to fill the whole room. He was a tall man, about six feet three, but with such broad shoulders and such perfect proportions throughout, that one never noticed his height except when he loomed up beside ordinary men. Lean, but as a race horse is lean,—strong-featured, with a forceful jaw, but of which one never thought because of his gentle smile; keen grey eyes that looked one through and through, yet so kindly that one never considered himself being scrutinized; in short, a magnetic, winsome personality that inspired confidence and friendliness even in a criminal. Though little over fifty, Alan Ford’s hair was silver-grey, the grey of the outside of a clean oyster shell, with fine lines of black in the shadows and white high lights. His eyes, deep-set under dark lashes, were tranquil and a trifle sad, but when his anger was aroused, he seemed to throw off as a garment his pacific air, his eyes flashed fire, his jaw hardened and showed its power, his muscles became visible under his clothing, his whole manner was alert and he looked like a tiger ready to spring. Woe to any one who ever caused him to look like that!

  In dress, Ford was a connoisseur, and his carefully built clothes were always correct and never conspicuous. In manner he was a gentleman in the best and finest sense of the much misused word.

  Eileen had dreaded his coming, but she could not resist the subtle fascination of his manner as he greeted his hosts. And before she had talked with him ten minutes she was glad to put all her troubles in his capable hands.

  “Tell me everything,” he said, as, over the teacups, they discussed the tragedy.

  Supplementing each other Eileen and her father told all the tragic details, and as Ford listened he said little except, “Tell me more.”

  Briefly, yet graphically, Eileen described the wedding ceremony, and the mysterious death of the bride and subsequent events. Listening intently, Ford nodded his head as he mastered each new point.

  “A marvelous criminal!” he said, at last, as if the expression of admiration were wrung from him. “Most murderers are fools as well as villains. They leave clues, more or less obvious; they forget or overlook conditions that fairly shriek incrimination to one who can understand their language; they underdo or overdo their subsequent interest in the case; and their work lacks harmony and plausibility. Now, here, we have a criminal who boldly dared an original plan, a plan so daring and so cold-blooded that we know at once we must look for a genius in crime. No ordinary nature would conceive of a murder at a wedding altar! The very conjunction of terms is unique, hitherto unknown! We need not waste time suspecting a man of low caste or of small education. The criminal is a man of brains, of culture, of poise.”

  “Was it a man?” said Eileen, musingly, and then she told Ford of Charlotte’s tale of the beautiful woman looking in at the window of the church.

  “It could well have been the work of a jealous woman,” Ford agreed; “the human being who can love intensely, is also usually capable of crime. And, man or woman, whoever carries in the heart that deadly, burning acid of jealousy, may, on occasion, give way to the impulse of murder. But the coloured woman’s story needs much further evidence and corroboration before it can take shape as a definite suspicion. On the face of it, it seems too daring, too careless of consequences for her to come to the church, openly, and fire through the window, no matter how cleverly she concealed her act. Of course, whoever did it, the act was cleverly concealed, but that would not be difficult, in a crowded church, and with a pocket pistol. It is the master idea, of choosing the circumstances of the deed so cleverly, that makes me know the criminal is a genius. I have long wondered if a crime might not be committed which would be absolutely undiscoverable. This seems to me to present no loophole of discovery by ordinary or by physical means. The only clues must be psychological, not material. We have none of the commonplace evidences of footprints, broken cufflinks, or cigarette stubs. We can only hope to trace the criminal through mental procedure. And that is not an easy task.”

  “It seems hopeless,” said Eileen, slowly; “can you get no idea from the actual facts? Do you care to go to look at the church?”

  “I will go, of course, Miss Randall, but I cannot expect much hap from that sort of observation. Were there anything to be learned that way, it would have been discovered by your local detectives. For instance, the testimony of the doctor that the bride could have turned round after being struck by the bullet, leaves us no reason to assume the shot came from the left side or from the right. The fact that the bullet entered through her hair and thus left no visible powder mark is another accidental difficulty in placing the distance of the assailant. No, so far as I can see, now, there is no definite, material clue of any sort though, of course, some may yet turn up. Now, for further information about people. To begin with the bride. Was she a lady of varied interests, socially?”

  Eileen realized the trend of this inquiry, and replied, “Yes, Mr. Ford, there is no use begging the question; Eth
el was a flirt, always. She couldn’t seem to help it, and she told me often, that she would lead a man on to propose to her, for the fun of refusing him. This is hard to say of the dead, but if you want the truth, that is it.”

  “But she was in love with Mr. Bingham?”

  “Yes,—in so far as it was in her nature to love. She had promised to marry him, and even though he—he—”

  “My daughter finds it difficult to tell the exact state of things,” interrupted Doctor Randall, in his calm, direct way, “but it was this. Stanford Bingham was engaged to Miss Moulton when we came here to live last fall. The pair were not in love with each other,—I know that. But Bingham must marry before his birthday of this year, or lose a large fortune. However, when he and my daughter met, it was—”

  “Don’t, father!” cried Eileen, but the Professor went calmly on, and Eileen ran out of the room.

  “Just as well,” said her father, “for I want you to understand this, Alan. It was love at first sight with Bingham and Eileen. They tried to conquer it, but they couldn’t. Eileen told me only part, but I read the poor child like a book. At last, it was about February, I think, he asked Ethel to set him free, because he loved Eileen. He was frank and manly about it, but Ethel refused to give him up. Many times he asked it, but Ethel held him to his contract, though she knew he loved another. It may be she wanted his money, and it may be she didn’t want Eileen to have him. At any rate, I’m sure it was not love for Bingham that made her insist on the marriage, for Ethel had no heart. She proved it by carrying out all her plans, and asking Eileen to be her maid of honour. My daughter’s proud spirit caused her to accept the invitation, and what the poor child suffered at that wedding, you may imagine!”

  “Do you suspect Bingham of the crime?” asked Ford, abruptly.

  “I can’t. Like you, I feel the psychology of the case, and every instinct tells me Bingham is not the man to do such a thing. And yet—”

  “And yet, was there ever a criminal whose crime was not a surprise to his friends? Of course, I’m not speaking now of professional wrong-doers. But this is, in every respect, an exceptional case, and we must look for an exceptional criminal. Not for one whom we would naturally suspect.”