The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Carolyn Wells

  Farrish looked at the detective a moment before he spoke, and then said slowly, “Yes, Mr. Ford, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to save an innocent man from suspicion.”

  “Who is the man?”

  “Stanford Bingham.”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t know, except by intuition. I have no proof, as yet.”

  “Well, I’m sure he didn’t do it. But I also felt sure that if that cipher message were made public, it would incriminate him. So I made up one to look similar, but mean nothing. And I’m glad I did it, for you would have read the real one, as easily as I did.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I destroyed it, but it said, word for word, this, ‘If you persist in going through with the ceremony, I will surely kill you.’ Now, that may have been sent by any one, but with the amount of suspicion already directed toward Bingham, by the police, I feared that the message would strengthen the case against him, and this I did not want to do.”

  “And, you, a lawyer, did this thing?”

  “Yes, and would do it again, if I felt it would save a man from unjust suspicion.”

  “Why are you so sure Bingham is innocent?” Farrish looked steadily at Ford. His eyes had a queer expression, and at first Ford did not grasp the man’s meaning. At last it dawned on him, and he said, “Mr. Farrish, I understand. You do believe Bingham guilty, and you destroyed that paper lest it really incriminate him!”

  “I shall not admit that, Mr. Ford.”

  “You needn’t admit it, I see it myself, now. But I am not so assured of his guilt, and I’m going to clear him, if I can.”

  “I know you are, and I hope you will. But don’t you see that that paper would have been a strong factor to fight against?”

  “Why? Could it be proved that Bingham sent it?”

  “Would it have to be? You know, as well as I do, that he didn’t want to marry Miss Moulton; that he tried every way to get her to release him; that he sent her a telegram the morning of the wedding—”

  “What!”

  “Haven’t you seen that double telegram, sent in two parts; alternate words, to be read backward?”

  “Yes, I saw that. How do you know he sent it, or them?”

  “Who else? Who else wanted Ethel out of existence?”

  “Why are you shielding him? Why don’t you want him brought to justice?”

  “He is my friend,” said Guy Farrish, with a grave look.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Hal Kennedy

  FORD left Farrish with a lot of new ideas. He concluded that the lawyer definitely suspected Bingham of the murder, but out of friendship was willing to suppress what might be incriminating evidence. And yet, it might not. As Ford knew, though he hadn’t told Farrish, the musical ciphers were without doubt all written by the same hand, and that hand was surely his who had enticed Ethel to Flora Wood under false promises. There could be little doubt that Ethel did elope to Flora Wood, for the Ballou woman’s story was so thoroughly verified by Ethel’s diary.

  The more Ford thought about it, the more he felt inclined to put the whole matter up to Stanford Bingham. Then, if Bingham were guilty, his manner would probably show it, and if not, he would have a chance to defend himself.

  Before doing this, he conferred with Eileen. She thought it over very seriously. “If Stan never knew of Ethel’s escapade,” she said, “it seems too bad to tell him of it. And yet, it might clear up a lot of the mystery. Yes, Mr. Ford, I say, let’s tell him. For, if you don’t you say you’ll give the picture of that woman to the police, and suppose, just suppose, it should turn out that she is the wife of the man Ethel eloped with!”

  Ford smiled. “Why should you jump to that conclusion?”

  “Because I am a woman, I suppose, and make my conclusions from my intuitions. That is the only photograph we have found in Ethel’s things, of a person absolutely unknown to us. All the others are people I know or her aunt knows, or at least, they are photographs that can be traced through the address of the photographer. This is the only one that has the address carefully scratched out. That makes it peculiar. Add to that, the fact that Charlotte saw this woman looking in at the church, and I believe that story, then why might it not be a picture of the wife who interfered with Ethel’s marriage to the man she eloped with?”

  “It is possible,” agreed Ford; “though a little far-fetched as a conclusion. However, if you are of the same idea, I propose we talk it over with Mr. Bingham.”

  It required only a telephone message from Eileen to bring Bingham at once to the Randall house.

  As succinctly as possible, Ford told him of the revelations of Ethel’s diary, and of the facts known of the Flora Wood affair.

  To his surprise, Stanford Bingham was furious. His eyes blazed as his listened, and at last he said, “I can scarcely believe it of Ethel! And yet I know it must be true, for it explains some things that were mysterious to me. I asked her, when we became engaged, if she had ever been engaged to any one else. And she said, ‘Yes, twice; to Eugene Hall and to Chester Morton.’ But she said these were only boy and girl affairs, one of them occurring while she was still at school, and that she had never really loved before she knew me. Now, as to this elopement, I well know who the man was, must have been. And I could kill him, if it would do any good! But it is all in the past,—poor Ethel!”

  “You know the man!” exclaimed Ford and Eileen, almost simultaneously.

  “Yes; or at least I have the strongest conviction that I do. I won’t say his name; you know him, Eileen. But I know that last summer, before Ethel and I were engaged, she went around a great deal with him, and in early August I was away for a week or more, and her aunt and uncle were away, and Ethel, left to her own devices, got into mischief. You know she was a headstrong, impetuous nature, and if she took the notion to elope, she’d fly off like a shot, and with no thought of how sorry she might be afterward! This man is fascinating, young, and of a dare-devil spirit. He is not ostensibly married, that is, no one knows him to be, but if a woman claimed to be his wife, I should not be at all surprised to learn that he had been secretly married. This must be the case, for of course, Ethel would never have gone with a man she knew to be married. Oh, Ethel! How could you!”

  “And you were betrothed to the lady soon after this?”

  “Yes, in the latter part of August. When I returned after my absence, Ethel seemed different, rather quieter and more subdued. Less flirtatious and coquettish. I attribute this change, now, to the experience you tell me about. It would have just that effect on the girl. But the subdued spirit wore away, and during last winter Ethel returned to her teasing, tantalizing ways. I am not the sort of man to be attracted by being piqued, and,—well, Mr. Ford, as you already know, I met Miss Randall, and thenceforth Miss Moulton had no charm for me. This may not be a very brave or worthy admission, but it is none the less true. I admit that when I asked Miss Moulton to marry me, it was with the remembrance that I must marry before my birthday in order to inherit a large fortune. But this in no way dishonoured the lady. While I felt no deep love for her, she was at that time the most charming and attractive girl I knew, and her softened, chastened air after her unfortunate ‘elopement’ made her even more admirable. So it happened, and we were no sooner engaged than I met Miss Randall and knew at once I had made the mistake of my life. I hesitated a few months, and about February I asked my fiancee to release me. This she positively refused to do, and though I frequently requested it, telling her the whole truth, she insisted on my keeping my betrothal vows. I could do nothing but acquiesce. I am not a man who could jilt a woman. But I tell you now, if I had known she eloped in that mad fashion I would never have married her! A woman who would do that is not worthy the name of an honest man!”

  Alan Ford looked intently at the speaker.

  “Oh, I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Ford,” said Bingham, bitterly; �
��you’re thinking that with the provocation I had, and with my desire to secure my fortune and my wish to marry Miss Randall, I might have gone through with the ceremony and then rid myself of an unwelcome wife. I admit it does look that way, it does look black against me. But there are reasons why I can’t shout my innocence from the house-tops. And yet, if this elopement business is a true bill, there may be another direction in which to look for the criminal. It may be that this man with whom Ethel went off on that mad journey might still be her lover, and might have shot her in a spirit of revenge and disappointed love. He was in the church.”

  “Who is it?” cried Eileen. “You must tell me, dear! You can’t have a secret from me. Who is it, Stan?”

  Bingham hesitated, and looked from one to the other. Then, impelled by Eileen’s imploring looks, he said, slowly, “Hal Kennedy.”

  “What!” cried Eileen, “Hal Kennedy! He is a reckless sort, but I didn’t know he was ever in love with Ethel!”

  “Who wasn’t?” said Bingham. “Yes, Kennedy was very much in love with Ethel, but I knew the man well, and I had her promise to drop his acquaintance. When I returned from that trip, I heard some rumours that Ethel had been going around a lot with him, but she denied it, and I believed her. Mark my word, Eileen, if Ethel eloped to Flora Wood last August, it was with Kennedy. But I can’t believe he killed her. He is a scamp, a dare-devil, but not a criminal.”

  “Somebody must be the criminal, Mr. Bingham,” put in Ford, “and with a lady of such natural coquetry, I think we may safely assume a man in her own walk of life, with a motive based on love, jealousy, or revenge, or all three. Do you know this lady?”

  Suddenly Alan Ford showed the photograph of the unknown beauty.

  “No,” returned Bingham, looking at the picture with little interest.

  They told him what they knew of it, and Bingham inclined to Eileen’s opinion that it might be the real wife of the man they suspected.

  “If Kennedy were secretly married,” he said, “at college, say, or after leaving it, that is just the sort of girl he would choose. See how flashy she is, and yet very beautiful. Not of our class, but wonderfully fascinating. Naturally, he tired of her, and either because of real love for Ethel, or just for a lark, he proposed this wild affair of Flora Wood.”

  “Why not take a photograph of Mr. Kennedy and go out there?” said Eileen. “Then we would know from that landlady if this was the man who went with Ethel.”

  It was not easy to get a photograph of the young man, secretly, but Ford procured a newspaper picture of him that had been published lately, and the three started in a motor car for the pretty little inn.

  It gave Ford great satisfaction that Bingham accompanied them, for though he couldn’t believe for a minute it was he who had gone there with Ethel, yet he wanted positive assurance of that.

  Mrs. Ballou was not so affable as on the previous occasion, and rather resented further inquiries on the subject.

  “I don’t know anything about it,” she said to Ford, “more than what I’ve told you. I’m sorry the poor young lady was killed, but I don’t want to get mixed up in the matter in any way.”

  “But, madam,” replied Ford, “you’re far more likely to get mixed up in it if you don’t answer our questions. Of course, you will be in no way incriminated. If your story is true, you helped the young lady all you could, and were exceedingly kind to her. Now, I ask you, officially, as a detective, whether this is a picture of the young lady in question?”

  “It certainly is,” returned the woman as she glanced at Ethel’s photograph, “I told you that before.”

  “I know you did,” said Ford, quietly; “now, is this the man who accompanied her?”

  Mrs. Ballou took the newspaper cut of Hal Kennedy and scrutinized it “No,” she said at last, “No, it’s not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Again a short hesitation. “Well, I am sure, and yet I don’t remember the man so very clearly. You see, he went away, but the lady stayed with me overnight, so I recognize her more easily. And yet, yes, sir, I think I can say I am sure that is not the man.”

  “Not very satisfactory,” began Bingham, when Eileen produced the photograph of the strange girl. “Do you know this?” she asked of Mrs. Ballou.

  “Yes, indeed,” was the immediate reply. “That is the one who claimed to be the man’s wife. He called her Caprice.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive! I couldn’t mistake her!”

  “But,” objected Ford, “You tell us that this one went away with the man. Therefore, you saw no more of her than you did of him. But you are not so sure of him.”

  “It’s quite different. She is a most striking-looking lady, a beauty, of a distinct type. I’d know her anywhere. The man was not distinguished, or unusual-looking, and besides that newspaper picture may not look exactly like him. They seldom do.”

  “That’s so,” said Bingham. “Yet it seems to me that this is a good likeness of Hal.”

  “Yes, it is,” agreed Eileen. “But we have established the identity of this woman, at any rate. We must get her, somehow, and then we can discover the man easily enough.”

  “Good reasoning,” said Ford, looking at her admiringly. “But how begin that search? Wouldn’t it be better to trace Mr. Kennedy’s movements last August? Or, even to investigate his past for a secret marriage?”

  “I wish the identification of Kennedy with this affair could be more sure before we attack him,” said Bingham, looking uncertain. “It’s an awful thing to begin to track down a man without positive suspicion. I may have spoken too hastily, when I even mentioned his name.”

  “You say he was in the church?” asked Ford.

  “Why, yes,” broke in Eileen, “he was in the choir, you know. There were eight of them who preceded the bridal procession up the aisle, and then they went into the choir loft. It isn’t high, you know, it’s just up above and behind the minister.”

  “He couldn’t have shot from there,” said Ford. “What did he do afterward? After the bride fell?”

  “He came into the church parlour, while we were all there,” said Eileen, thinking back. “Three or four of the choristers did that, and they stayed till the Coroner or somebody put them out. At least, they all went away then, except Eugene Hall. He stayed longer; I don’t know why. It’s all like a mixed-up dream, and yet, it all stands out clearly, too.”

  “It doesn’t stand out clearly to me,” said Bingham, wearily; “it’s like a horrible nightmare. The whole thing is still as unbelievable to me as if it had never happened! I wish we could clear it up.”

  “We will, Mr. Bingham,” said Ford, gently; “there are so many new trails opening up, that some of them must put us on the right track.”

  After a few more words with Mrs. Ballou, they left, Ford again charging her to say nothing of the matter to anybody, unless it might be the police, should they call. For as Ford and Ferrall were not working in conjunction, the former did not know when the other detective might strike something that would lead him also to Flora Wood.

  “Don’t use Kennedy’s name until you know more,” said Bingham, on the way home. “I shall greatly regret having mentioned him, if it is a wrong track.”

  “Never fear, Mr. Bingham, I shall be very discreet But I don’t place much confidence in Mrs. Ballou’s recognition or non-recognition of the picture of him. It is just as she says about newspaper cuts; I’ve often seen my friends’ faces when I couldn’t recognize them at all.”

  “So have I,” said Eileen. “And she was sensible, too, in saying that a striking-looking woman was much easier recalled than a usual-looking man.”

  “The more I think it over, the more I doubt it’s being Kennedy, after all,” said Bingham. “I believe if it had been she would have remembered his face. And that picture is a good one. Don’t say anything about him yet. I think I can get some more light on his connection with it.”

  “There’s one thing, Mr. Bingham,” and For
d looked positive, “Mr. Kennedy is musical, and that would point to the fact of his being the author of those musical cipher messages.”

  “Not necessarily,” returned Bingham; “you know if a man is making a cryptogram, he may as well use musical notes as any other characters, whether he is himself a musician or not.”

  “That is partly true, but the neat way in which these were written seemed to point to one accustomed to writing music, or copying it.”

  “Are you a musician, Mr. Ford?” said Eileen, impulsively.

  “No; that is, not to be able to transcribe notes without great care and difficulty.”

  “Then you wouldn’t notice. But father says that a real musician dashes off his notes like fly tracks, and would never make those very painstakingly correct notes that all the ciphers show.”

  “That’s doubtless true,” said Ford. “Doctor Randall is a most acute reasoner. I shall look on those ciphers hereafter as the possible, if not probable, work of one not a musician.”

  It was characteristic of Alan Ford to accept in all good will a hint from any source that seemed helpful, and it never occurred to him to feel any chagrin that it had not been his own thought. He was too great in his own line of work, to mind taking help from any one in whose reasoning powers he had confidence.

  Reaching the Randall house, Ford went off by himself to collate his notes, and the other two were left alone.

  In the dim, cool living-room they stood, and Bingham held out his arms. Eileen went into them like a bird to her nest.

  For a moment or two he held her close without a word.

  Then he whispered: “Oh, Eileen, my own, my darling, if I could only have found you sooner, before I became involved in this awful tangle of horrors.”

  “Never mind, Stan, dear, it was not to be. Let’s be thankful, instead, that we’ve found each other at all. Oh, Stan, I am awful wicked, I know I am, but I’m glad Ethel is dead. Are you shocked too much at that? Don’t be. I can’t help it. I love you so, and now I can have you some day for my very own.”