The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Carolyn Wells

  “It baffles me,” he said, with a perplexed expression; “for it seems to me as if it must be a message of some sort. You know what I mean, a cipher or a secret code. For, surely, it is not meant for music.”

  He handed the little slip of paper to Ford, and awaited his opinion. The detective scrutinized the paper. It was a little soiled and much creased, having been folded into a small wad. It contained several bars of notes, pen-written, and very well done, as if by one accustomed to transcribe music.

  Ford whistled the notes as they occurred on the staff. The result was chaotic.

  “Rubbish as music,” he said, briefly; “I incline to your opinion, Mr. Farrish, it must be a message or memorandum. Unless it is merely a picturesque reminder from some disappointed swain, that the marriage of the lady has turned his life to a hopeless jangle of discord.”

  “I believe that’s it!” exclaimed Farrish. “That would explain it. You see, Mr. Ford, I’m more or less handy at ciphers and cryptograms, and I couldn’t even get a start on this in any such direction. You take it, and if you can’t detect any hidden meaning I shall believe your view of it correct. It will be a relief to my mind, too, for I hated to think it might be a clue, and yet I couldn’t fathom it.”

  “Very well, I’ll take it,” and Ford put the paper in his pocket-book. “I, too, am versed in the lore of cipher messages, and if there’s a hidden meaning to this music, I fancy I’ll read it.”

  As the detective opened his good-sized wallet, there chanced to be on top of other papers a small photograph of a smiling, girlish face.

  “Cap—” exclaimed Farrish, and as Alan Ford glanced quickly up, the lawyer finished the word; “Capital!” he said; “I am glad, Mr. Ford, that you have this case in hand. I want to own up, I opposed your coming, for—well, I’d rather not put it in words, but I had a suspicion of one who may be innocent, and I feared a miscarriage of justice. But since I have met you, I am certain that you will take no steps not entirely in accordance with law and order.”

  “You may be sure of that, Mr. Farrish,” and the interview over, Ford and Eileen went away.

  “Clear-headed chap,” commented Ford, as they walked along the elm-shaded street.

  “Yes; Mr. Farrish is one of our foremost citizens. He will be President of the Country Club this winter, and though it may not mean much to a stranger, that stands for all that is worth while with the people of Boscombe Fells.”

  Back at the house, Ford devoted the rest of the day to reading Ethel Moulton’s diaries and letters which he had procured from her desk.

  First of all he devoted some time to solving the musical cryptograms or ciphers, for he soon decided that the bits of musical compositions conveyed hidden messages. None of them was a bit of real music. He took up first the one Farrish had given him, the one that according to Eileen’s story had been handed to the bride as she started up the aisle, to her death.

  For hours Alan Ford studied it. “It seems as if there must be a key,” he said, musingly. “I’ve no doubt it is the simplest sort of a cipher, if I could but get the key. Usually, I can read these things off like so much print.”

  But the puzzle continued to baffle his efforts. At last, he took up one of the others. “Why,” he exclaimed; “I can read this one!”

  Several others were among the papers he had brought from Ethel’s desk and he read them all without hesitation.

  “Strange!” he said to Doctor Randall, who was working with him, “these old ones I can read, but this latest one is only a jumble of letters without sense.”

  The messages taken from the desk were all in regard to a proposed journey somewhere. It was evidently the intention of the writer of the cipher notes to keep the matter secret, for only the most guarded allusions were made to dates or places. The papers were much crumpled and timeworn, as if they had been studied carefully.

  They gave little information, but it became evident that they were written about a year previous.

  “Before we came here to live,” said Eileen. “I didn’t know Ethel then. Who do you suppose wrote these notes?”

  “The man who killed Mrs. Bingham,” said Ford, gravely. “They are the work of a strong, determined man who persisted in having his own way, in spite of Miss Moulton’s scruples. I am afraid, Miss Randall, that these notes may disclose something questionable in the lady’s life. Who is Flora Wood?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure; I never heard of any such person. Why?”

  “In Miss Moulton’s diary, last August, she writes several times of Flora Wood. In one of these ciphers is a reference to Flora Wood. And from the secrecy observed, I can’t help thinking there is something wrong. I shall investigate the matter very thoroughly, as it may have a bearing on the mystery. But what I can’t understand is reading all the cipher messages easily, except this last one, this one you, too, brought from the church. It may hold the solution of the whole thing, but I can’t get at it at all.”

  “Suppose we get the envelope in which it was sent to Doctor Van Sutton. Could that help any?”

  “It might, as a means of tracing the sender. If you will, you might go over to the parsonage and ask for it.”

  “If it has been kept, but I fear it hasn’t. However, I’ll go and see.”

  Eileen went on her errand, and Alan Ford continued to work at the cipher message. But all his efforts to read it were in vain.

  “I have the envelope,” said Eileen, as she returned later. “The minister had kept it by chance. See, the paper matches it. It was mailed in New York City.”

  Ford looked eagerly at the type-written address to the minister, and took from the envelope another sheet of the same kind of paper which bore these few words: “Kindly have this music given to the bride just before she starts up the aisle to be married. She will be expecting it.”

  The words were pen-written, in the style that is called pure Spencerian.

  “The hardest kind of a disguised hand to trace!” exclaimed Ford. “Of course, it is a disguised hand, no one writes naturally with such careful strokes. It is baffling!”

  The letters were formed as carefully as if in a copybook. The slight shading on the down strokes was in accordance with the Spencerian school. In all probability the writer’s natural hand-writing was very different. Nor could anything be learned from the typed address. The whole affair was anonymous, and very evidently planned to remain so.

  “If I could only get at the message,” cried Ford in despair. “Oh!” and a sudden idea struck him, “Oh, Miss Randall, are you sure this is the very same paper that you had at first?”

  “The same paper? Why, of course. It’s just like the envelope, you see.”

  “I know. But,—who has had this since you received it, beside Mr. Farrish?”

  “Several people. Father studied over it, so did Mr. Bingham, so did Warry Swift. And so did Mr. Ferrall. Why?”

  “I think the paper has been changed. I think this is not the same message you had at first.”

  “That may be so,” and Eileen looked at the music in perplexity. “But who would do such a thing, and why?”

  “I don’t know, but I begin to see a little way into the gloom.”

  And then Ford returned to his reading of the diaries and letters.

  CHAPTER XV

  Flora Wood

  SEVERAL days passed without much light being thrown on the case, when at last Alan Ford’s efforts were rewarded and he discovered Flora Wood. It turned out to be not a person but a place. A sort of inn, or road-house, where motor parties were entertained. While of a rather imposing type and of ornate appointments, the place had a reputation for smartness that was not altogether above criticism. Some men of whom Ford inquired concerning the place, gave a meaning glance and shrugged their shoulders. But it seemed impossible to think of the haughty and exclusive Ethel Moulton having anything to do with such a place.

  Ford went there, taking a photograph of Ethel with him.

  He learned a great deal. The lady of t
he house, a Mrs. Ballou, readily recognized the picture. At first she was inclined to be uncommunicative, but Ford persuaded her in the interests of justice to tell all she knew of the matter.

  So Mrs. Ballou reluctantly told the story. It seemed that it occurred the summer before, in early August. The young lady, Mrs. Ballou said, came to Flora Wood with a fine-looking gentleman. The pair said they were eloping. They were frank about it; indeed, seemed to look on it as a sort of lark, and showed no seriousness of manner. They planned to be married in the parlour of the hotel, and the man said he would telephone for a minister or a justice to perform the ceremony. The girl was in gay spirits, and asked Mrs. Ballou to stand by her. She assured the landlady that she was doing no harm. Said she was an orphan, and responsible to no one for her actions. They seemed very happy, and Mrs. Ballou contemplated making a little wedding feast for the couple. But before any further steps could be taken, another woman appeared at the house and declared she was the man’s wife. There was a terrible scene between the two women, each claiming the man as her own. One strange feature was that no names had been given, and all three refused to give their names. Or rather the man refused to allow them to tell their names. He said his own name was Henry Miller, but Mrs. Ballou knew that was not true. He called for a motor and took away with him the one who said she was his wife. The other lady, the one of the photograph, remained with Mrs. Ballou over night and left the next day. She changed her demeanour and instead of gaiety she showed a sweet, sad side of her character which completely charmed her hostess.

  “I was so sorry for her,” Mrs. Ballou said, “I was glad to help her in any way I could.”

  “Do you suppose the whole story was true?” asked Ford, when he had heard this much.

  “I’m sure of it. She was a dear, sweet girl. Haughty in her manner at first, but after the trouble she was broken and pathetic. She said she’d rather not tell her name, and I respected her wish and did not ask it. She was utterly crushed at the whole occurrence, and I know she was good and honest. The man was a villain!”

  “What did he look like?”

  “A fine-looking man, sir. Tall and handsome, with courteous, gentlemanly manners. But a villain! To think of his bringing the lady here with a promise of marriage when he had a wife already! The wretch!”

  Ford pondered. It was not a pretty story, even viewed in its best light. If it had no connection with Ethel’s murder, and he was very far from sure that it had, what was the use of making it public?

  He knew the girl had been impulsive, even rash, and he was not greatly surprised to learn of the escapade. But, except for her own humiliation and chagrin, there had been no real harm done, and why rake up a disagreeable past if it were not necessary? At any rate, he concluded to await further developments of some sort before telling about Flora Wood. And especially, he wanted to learn who the man was, before divulging the secret.

  The references in the diary were now explained. There were no definite accounts of the Flora Wood episode, but the veiled allusions could have no other meaning. Also, the musical messages were explained, for many of them referred to the meeting and the journey to Flora Wood, and endearing words about how happy they would be there, and thereafter, being always together.

  Ethel had been misled by some man who obviously meant to marry her, although he had a wife at the time. This was villainy enough, but could it be the same man who had killed her on her wedding day?

  Ford couldn’t make himself think so. In fact, all the details of the matter seemed to him to point to Stanford Bingham as the murderer.

  Ford never forgot the strong motive of Bingham for wanting to secure his fortune and not wanting to have Ethel for a life companion. And now, if by any chance Bingham had discovered Ethel’s escapade at Flora Wood, that was another reason why he did not want her for a wife. Perhaps he had not known the truth of the story, but had reason to think Ethel was worse than she was. Perhaps he, Ford, had not heard the true story! What if there were more to it, and worse, and, bribed by Miss Moulton, the Ballou woman had not told the truth?

  At any rate Ford decided to keep his own counsel until he knew a little more. The police were working vigorously on the case, and though they had not yet reached a conclusion, they were on a widely different track from Ford, and they might be nearer right.

  But the detective made an exception in the case of Eileen Randall. Though he did not tell her father, the Professor, he told the girl the whole story of Flora Wood, and asked her if she had any suspicion as to who the man might be.

  “No,” said Eileen; “it happened before we came here. It was early in August, you say, and we moved here in September. Ethel became engaged to Stanford Bingham in the latter part of August. If she loved this other man, perhaps she took Mr. Bingham in a fit of pique, after the other man treated her so badly.”

  “You don’t think the man in question could have been Bingham himself?”

  “Oh, goodness, no! Stanford wasn’t married before—before he married Ethel.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Oh, because, I just—know! That’s all.”

  “I can’t think it was he who took Miss Moulton to Flora Wood, either. But we must find out who it was before we make the matter public.”

  At that moment Charlotte chanced to come into the library where the discussion was going on. On the table, among other papers, lay a photograph which Ford had brought from Ethel’s desk.

  “Lawd ‘a’ massy!” exclaimed Charlotte; “if dat ain’t de berry lady now!”

  “What lady?” asked Ford.

  “Why, suh, de one I seen lookin’ in at de winduh ob de chu’ch on de day ob de weddin’.”

  “Which window?”

  “I done tole you ’bout it. De front winduh on de west side.”

  “Are you sure, Charlotte?” asked Eileen.

  “Yas’m, Miss Eily, I’se perf’ly suah. Dat’s de one what looked in an’ den ran away an’ got in de motoh cyar an’ scooted off.”

  “How are you so certain?” asked Ford, interestedly.

  “I couldn’t mistake huh,” returned Charlotte, earnestly. “She was a beautiful lady, right peart an’ bright-lookin’ as you see in dat picture.”

  The photograph was indeed that of a bright-looking lady. A beauty, too. Large, dark eyes and black hair, the whole countenance of a Spanish type. The picture had been tucked in Ethel’s desk, hidden between some letters. The costume was not strictly up-to-date, but neither was it really old fashioned.

  “We wore gowns like that summer before last,” said Eileen, reminiscently. “The picture must have been taken then.”

  “It would be easy to trace the photograph, if the name of the photographer were on it; but it has been scratched off. Purposely, of course, and very thoroughly. It cannot be traced now.”

  “Perhaps, after all,” observed Eileen, “the picture may have nothing to do with Ethel.”

  “I am inclined to think, however,” Ford returned, “that Charlotte is right in her recognition of the face; and if it is the person who looked in at the church and then went away in a motor, it must be inquired into.”

  “It sho’ is dat same lady,” Charlotte insisted, earnestly. “I cyan’t be mistooken ’bout dat, nohow!”

  The coloured girl went away, and Ford decided to give the picture to the police, as it might be too important a matter to keep back.

  As Alan Ford walked over to headquarters, his mind reverted to a half-forgotten impression that lurked in his memory. It seemed to him that when he had called on Farrish, and had accidentally exposed that very photograph, the lawyer had started as if in recognition of it. It was but an uncertain, vague idea, but he determined to go and inquire if it might be so.

  Accordingly, he turned and went to the office of Farrish, before taking the picture to the police.

  He fortunately found his man in, and asking for a few minutes of his time, Ford drew out the picture and showed it.

  “Do you know her?” he asked
.

  “No,” replied Farrish, taking the picture, and looking at it. “But it’s a mighty handsome girl! Who is she?”

  “I don’t know. We found it among Mrs. Bingham’s papers. I’m going to take it to the police.”

  “Why? Has this lady anything to do with the tragedy?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. I think she is connected in some way, but I’ve no idea how.”

  “What do you know? Or don’t you care to tell me?”

  “Only this; that she is said to have been seen looking in at the church window the day of the murder, and there is a possibility that she might have fired the shot that killed the bride.”

  “This girl! Why, she looks like a thoroughbred!”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t say that! To me she looks like a handsome adventuress.”

  “Yes, in a way, she does; sort of Spanish type. Well, I hope you won’t discover that she’s a villain, I’m sure. Have you made any real progress, Mr. Ford?”

  “I have started several trails, but I haven’t run them all down yet. Now, you remember that musical cipher you gave me?”

  “Have you proved it to be a musical cipher? It looked to me like rubbish.”

  “And it is,—that is, it seems to mean nothing. But, Mr. Farrish, Miss Moulton had received some several messages that were written in a musical cipher, and in the same general style of bars and notes as that paper shows. How do you explain that?”

  “Bless my soul, man! Am I called upon to explain it? And, if so, why?”

  “For the very good reason that you changed the papers! The paper you gave to Miss Randall the other day is not the same paper she gave you to decipher. The one that was found in the bride’s hand.”

  “This is strange talk! Explain yourself, Mr. Ford.”

  “It is for you to explain yourself, Mr. Farrish. Why did you do this thing?”

  “How do you know I did do it?”

  “Because the other messages in the same cipher all can be easily read, but this one we’re talking of is mere gibberish. I believe the message given to the bride before her wedding ceremony to have been a real message. I believe Miss Randall brought it to you, and after you deciphered it, you replaced it by a message written by yourself, which was incapable of sensible interpretation. Did you do this?”