The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Carolyn Wells

  The next morning, Ford told Doctor Randall and Eileen all he had learned, and all he had concluded from it. He showed them the sheets of music, bidding them handle them carefully, by the margins.

  “The assassin was in the choir,” the detective announced positively, “but it was not Kennedy. I’m sure of that”

  “Who, then?” asked Eileen.

  “Have you no idea?”

  “Surely not Eugene Hall?”

  “No. Now look here. On the back cover of this piece of music is a brown stain that I think is a powder stain, left by the flash of the discharged automatic in the hand of the assassin. He naturally used his right hand, which, shielded by the sheet music, was noticed by no one. The hand rested on the greenery wreathing the choir rail. The music of the organ made the slight sound of the report inaudible, and the heavy scent of flowers overcame any smell of powder. The shot, of course, deflected a little downward, and the victim was hit just as she was turning, in fact, had turned part way, so that her right side was toward the choir. She turned farther before she fell, as the doctors have agreed she would be likely to do. There is, so far, no unexplained condition.”

  “But who was it?” insisted Eileen.

  “Granting that all this happened, the shell would be automatically discharged from the pistol and would fall to the floor. The criminal would doubtless stoop to pick it up, but would drop something also, that his motion might seem natural. I inquired if one had not dropped his sheet of music soon after the shot, and learned that one did.”

  “Who?”

  “Farrish.”

  “Guy Farrish! Oh, no!” and Eileen looked incredulous.

  “Farrish?” Doctor Randall smiled. “Come, come, Ford, you are drawing on your imagination. Or have you any real evidence?”

  “It’s impossible to tell which men had the various sheets of music as they are not individual property. But, I hold this brown stain to be a powder mark. Smell of it.”

  Doctor Randall sniffed at the brown mark, and nodded his head. “I can discern it,” he said. “But why connect it with Farrish?”

  “Partly because he’s the only one who stooped to the floor.”

  “But he dropped his music.”

  “Purposely, of course. Now, I propose to prove that these are his finger prints on this same sheet of music.”

  “Pretty difficult,” said the Professor. “But it can be done. I mean the prints can be brought out, so that we can compare them. But different men have fingered this music.”

  “Yes,” agreed Ford; “it is a chance, I know, but I’m assuming that a man, necessarily excited and perturbed at such a crisis, would inevitably finger the music nervously, and his hands would perspire from overwrought sensibilities. He would make more definite finger prints than the others, who had no especial nervousness before the shot was fired. At any rate I have discovered such prints on this particular piece of music, and though I have not yet seen Mr. Farrish’s finger prints, I think it a chance worth trying.”

  “But you say there are powder marks on two pieces of music,” said Eileen, still incredulous.

  “That’s part of the evidence. You see these marks are on the back cover, which would naturally be over the holder’s right hand. On this other sheet that shows marks, they are on the front cover, which would be held over the left hand of the singer, and would indicate a left-handed man, which none of the choir is.”

  “Then how did the marks come there?”

  “Because the music was piled up by the organist or sexton, and the marks on one sheet are directly over those on the other. See, if the music had been piled up thus, the mark on this back cover would be exactly over the mark on this front cover. They coincide, but the one on the back is much stronger and clearer, showing that the other is merely a smudge from the first one.”

  “Good work, Ford!” exclaimed Doctor Randall. “You are entirely right, so far. These two powder marks are surely the result of piling up the music, as you say, for they are the same colour and shape, and each has a very faint odour of gunpowder. Moreover, it is clear that the lighter mark is the result of the plainer one. As to these finger marks, I will dust them with black lead and photograph them for you.”

  “Yes, I thought you’d do that. But I have other reasons for suspecting Farrish. Don’t you think he guessed that musical cipher rather quickly, considering he had only that one short sentence to work on? I am an expert at those things, and yet it took me some time to puzzle it out, though I had several examples to work on. And when he made the fake one, which he did make to deceive you, his notation was so nearly like the original as to make me think very strongly that he wrote the originals.”

  “But,” said Eileen, “when he showed you his natural way of writing music it was not at all like that.”

  “That’s just it. He made those ciphers in a different hand so they would not look like his work. When he wanted to make one to look like them, he did so, and when he wanted to show me that he wrote music differently, he did that. I suspect him, principally, because he has not been logical in his connections with the case. He said he replaced that original cipher paper with one of his own making, because he feared the other would incriminate Mr. Bingham. He said it read, ‘If you persist in going through the ceremony I will surely kill you,’ or words to that effect. Now, as a matter of fact, it read, ‘If you marry Bingham, I will surely kill you.’ Farrish said that Bingham used his own name that way, to turn suspicion from himself, should the cipher be read by another. But I hold that is absurd on the face of it. Supposing Farrish, being innocent, read that message as it was really sent Wouldn’t he be much more likely to think some one else than Bingham wrote it? Why would he at once jump to the conclusion that Bingham wrote it, and spoke of himself that way as a blind? It isn’t logical.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Doctor Randall. “But if you are right, if Farrish shot Ethel, then he was the man who went to Flora Wood with her.”

  “He must be,” said Ford. “Also, he must be the husband of Caprice; also, he must be the man who forced Caprice to telephone here that she killed the lady.”

  “But she said she didn’t do that telephoning,” said Eileen.

  “I don’t believe her,” and Ford looked obstinate. “I know I am right. That woman, Caprice, is mixed up in it all, but she didn’t do the shooting. There are the powder marks and the finger prints.”

  “The latter haven’t yet been identified,” reminded Doctor Randall.

  “I know it, but they will surely prove to be Farrish’s.”

  “Also, I doubt if those brown stains will be received as evidence; they may not be powder after all.”

  “But,” said Eileen, “there is one way you can make sure. Take Mr. Farrish’s picture to Flora Wood, and ask that landlady there if he is the man who came there with Ethel.”

  “I have done that,” said Ford, looking at her; “I went there yesterday, and took a picture of Guy Farrish and asked her that.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said, no, he was not the man.”

  “Well?”

  “I didn’t believe her.”

  CHAPTER XXI

  The Call of the Siren

  “NO, Eileen,” and Bingham held the girl closely to him, “I don’t believe Farrish did it. Why should he?”

  “Did you never think, dear, that Mr. Farrish knew Ethel better than you thought he did? Don’t you think that it was he who went with her to Flora Wood?”

  “But that woman out there swears he is not the man.”

  “I know, but I don’t believe her, and neither does Mr. Ford.”

  “Do you know, Eily, I don’t have much faith in that man Ford’s work. What has he done, so far?”

  “He’s done a lot, Stan, and it’s all for you. But that horrid old Mr. Somers,—he’s so taken up with that ‘Caprice’ woman, he believes all she says.”

  “I know. He believes her story of seeing me shoot Ethel. Well, dearest, there’s, nothing fo
r me to do but stand trial.”

  “Indeed you sha’n’t! Mr. Ford and I have a new plan. I won’t tell you about it yet, but I’m going to try it if all else fails.”

  “Do what you like,” said Bingham, wearily; “but, oh, my darling, will it ever be all over and you and I free to go away by ourselves where we shall never hear of this place or these people again? I’d willingly give up my whole fortune to be freed of suspicion, and happy with you.”

  “Of course, dear, and so would I. Money is as nothing compared to this awful web they have woven around you. Stanford, how can people suspect you!”

  “It is natural that they should, when you remember the circumstances. That absurd will business, and the fact that I did not love Ethel, is enough to condemn me in the eyes of the public.”

  “But not in the eyes of those who love you. Father and I know you innocent, and Mr. Ford knows it too. We three will save you yet, or would, if you’d only help a little yourself.”

  “What can I do? It doesn’t help to protest my innocence.”

  “But at first you wouldn’t say that you didn’t do it.”

  “You know that was on account of Warry. After the wrong I had done Ethel, I couldn’t turn tale-bearer about her cousin, and I did think him guilty at first.”

  “I know, on account of the diamond. But, now, there is no suspicion of him. Why not come out and fight for yourself?”

  “I would gladly, if I saw any way to fight. I am innocent, I’ve no idea who is guilty. What can I do?”

  The whole affair had unmanned Stanford Bingham. Always reticent, and averse to publicity, this dreadful atmosphere of suspicion had caused him more than ever to retire into himself. He shrank from his fellow-men, he dreaded to go on the streets, he saw no one except the Randalls, if he could possibly avoid it. All this did not militate in his favour with the community; and nine out of ten in the town believed him guilty.

  District Attorney Somers was positive of Bingham’s guilt, and now that the woman Caprice had told him her story, Somers was working diligently to get further corroboration.

  Caprice had given her address and credentials. She asserted that she was a vaudeville actress, living in New York City. That she had been motoring through Boscombe Fells by chance, on the day of the wedding, and, actuated by mere curiosity, had left her car and gone to look in at the window of the church. She said she saw the bridegroom shoot the bride at the altar.

  This story was so unsupported by any other evidence than the word of the woman, that Somers hesitated about acting on it without further proof. Charlotte had admitted that she saw the woman looking in at the church, but at Eileen’s warning had refused to dilate on the story, and finally said she was not sure it was the same woman, after all.

  Somer’s had not learned of the Flora Wood episode, and as the days went by, Somers and Alan Ford became more and more opposed in their opinions and in their work.

  “It’s come to an issue between us,” declared Ford to Eileen; “Somers is bent on suspecting Bingham, and I know it was Farrish. Why, your father proved that those were Farrish’s finger prints on the piece of music that shows the burnt stain, and Somers only pooh-poohs at that.”

  “How does he explain it?”

  “He says there’s nothing to explain. Says they’re Farrish’s prints, all right, but that the brown stain is not a powder stain, and that there is no reason to think of Farrish in connection with it.”

  “Then there’s only one way,” and Eileen looked earnestly in the face of the great detective.

  “I think there is only one way. It’s a very peculiar case. It has no precedent, no parallel. I can’t think Somers is personally prejudiced against Bingham; I think the District Attorney is honest in his beliefs. And, too, in a murder case, an eyewitness is invaluable if the statement can be believed. That’s why Somers is looking up the Caprice woman so thoroughly. He doesn’t want to credit her story unless she is reliable and responsible as a witness, but he hopes to prove that she is.”

  “What is he doing?”

  “He is investigating her past and present history. He has found out little of importance, so far; nothing, in fact, that contradicts her own story. But if he gets hold of the Flora Wood incident, I am afraid there will be trouble. You see, the man that went there with Ethel Moulton was certainly Farrish. But he has bribed that Ballou woman to deny it. Farrish is so deep, so infernally clever, that it is next to impossible to fasten anything on him. But I’ll get him yet.”

  Alan Ford stalked up and down the room in a fury. And Eileen wondered. She had faith in his powers, but he was a queer man, and his theory that Farrish was the criminal had so little to back it up, that she couldn’t help doubting. And, too, what was Farrish’s motive? He had been in love with Ethel, but of late he had not been very attentive to her; indeed, he had shown a decided preference for Eileen Randall. Surely the thing was a little absurd.

  Eileen dressed herself in one of her prettiest costumes, and went to see Farrish in his office.

  “Come in,” he said, cordially; “this is, indeed, a pleasure?”

  “You told me to come when I chose,” and Eileen blushed a little, and looked up at him with a timid smile.

  “To be sure I did. You are always welcome. What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, nothing particular. I just want to talk over the murder case with some one who knows something.”

  “About it?”

  “No; I don’t mean about it, exactly; but some one who knows things generally.”

  Eileen gave him a quick, bright glance from the corner of her eye, and then looked down. It fascinated Farrish, who was susceptible always to woman’s beauty, and Eileen had the seductive smile of a siren.

  As Farrish didn’t speak, she looked up again, to find him smiling back at her, from under half-closed lids. She fluttered, and nervously fingered her pink parasol.

  She was looking her prettiest in a thin gown of apple-blossom pink, cut a bit low in the neck, and with transparent sleeves. Her broad-brimmed straw hat was wreathed with pink roses, and round it was draped a filmy white veil. This veil, which had been put back, Eileen now drew over her face with a coquettish gesture, and her dark eyes shone through it with a tantalizing gleam. It was distinctly provocative, and Guy Farrish started from his seat, and stepped forward toward her.

  They were alone, in his private office, and as Eileen gave him a startled glance, he gently raised the silken veil and tossed it back over her hat.

  “Now I can see you better,” he said, smiling down as he stood over her. “Tell me your errand.”

  “I can’t—with you so near—” and Eileen blushed and toyed with her parasol. “I—I—think I’d better go—” and she rose slowly.

  “Go!” and Farrish laid a restraining hand on her arm. “Why, you’ve only just come. What is it you want,—Eileen?”

  She stood beside him, beautiful, hesitating. Then she put a hand lightly on his shoulder. “No,” she said, looking down, and her voice quivered a little, “no, I find I can’t tell you, after all—” Her soft voice trailed away to silence, and with eyes cast down and lip trembling, she stood, uncertainly turning toward the door.

  The lure of the girl was too much for Farrish. With a quick, uncontrollable movement, he caught her in his arms, and whispered, “Tell me now,—here! You sweet, sweet thing!”

  In a fury, Eileen sprang away from him. “Mr. Farrish!” she exclaimed; “how dare you? What do you mean?”

  But though the tones expressed deepest indignation, the soft eyes were not altogether chiding.

  “What do you mean?” he cried, wonderingly; “you tempt me beyond endurance, and then reproach me for yielding to your bewitchment!”

  “Hush! You must be mad!” and Eileen looked at him with the stately air of an offended goddess.

  “I am! Mad about you! Eileen, I didn’t know you were so beautiful! What has come to you, girl?”

  With no reply in words, Eileen gave him a sweet, shy smile th
at might mean anything. To Farrish it meant much. Again he clasped her in his arms, with exclamations of endearment. This time she showed no resentment, but said in a whisper, “Please, don’t! Please let me go! Oh, what have I done! What am I doing! Oh, Guy, let me go!”

  Slowly Farrish released her. “Sit down,” he said, commanding himself, “and tell me what you—”

  “No, I can’t,—now—” said Eileen, putting down her veil. “I must go. Don’t detain me now! I can’t—oh, I can’t!”

  “Go, then, dear,” said Farrish, gently. “Go, and I will come to see you. May I come to-night?” Eileen gave no sign of assent, except a brief glance, but it seemed enough for Farrish, and he opened the door, and bowed his visitor out with formal courtesy. Eileen went away, and straight home. Going to her room she locked the door, and sat down in her favourite low chair to think.

  “It’s awful,” she said, to herself; “awful! But there is something about Guy that is wonderfully fascinating.”

  * * * *

  Farrish came that evening. Bingham called shortly after his arrival, and was told by Charlotte that Miss Eily was not at home.

  Uncertain as to the truth of this statement, Bingham went away, dejected and wondering.

  Eileen was even more lovely in her evening gown than she had seemed in her morning costume. Her soft, exquisite shoulders were bare, and her dainty arms flashed in and out of the draped lace that served as sleeves. Her laughing eyes were bright, and her cheeks rosy pink, as she smiled at Farrish.

  “I don’t know what you must have thought of me this morning,” she said, glancing up through drooping lashes, “I—I think I—lost my head, a little.”

  “I know I lost mine, utterly! When did you discover it, Eileen?”

  “Discover what?” with a shy, wondering look.