The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Carolyn Wells

  “Sound enough. Now let’s go to the Billiard Room.”

  Crossing the studio again, they entered the Billiard Room, a large apartment with seats round the walls and the table in the centre.

  Cue racks and much smoking and other masculine paraphernalia were all about. There were a skylight of stained glass and a few high side windows. An outside door was on the South side.

  “Here Mr. Courtenay left Mrs. Stannard, at much the same time Barry left the girl,” Roberts said. “So you see, Steele, their chances are equal.”

  “Chances of what?”

  “I mean chances to go into the studio, unobserved of anybody, commit the deed, turn off the lights, and then, either return to the spot she came from or to remain in the room until the other entered. It must have been that way, for there’s no other way for it to be.”

  “All right; now, what about Mrs. Stannard’s story of overhearing the stuff her husband said to the girl?”

  “Probably true, but if he said that to Miss Vernon and Mrs. Stannard overheard it, she might have run in and found the dead man, or she might have run in and stabbed the living man.”

  “In the dark?”

  “Perhaps so. She knew where every bit of furniture was. But isn’t it quite as likely that the girl did the stabbing?”

  “That wax baby?”

  “She isn’t the baby she looks! Always distrust a blonde.”

  “But such a blonde!”

  “Distrust them in proportion to their blondeness, then. But we’ve learned all we can here. Back to think it over, and puzzle it out.”

  CHAPTER VI

  Mrs. Faulkner’s Account

  Now, although the residents of the aristocratic Rensselaer Park were willing, and even preferred to accept the burglar theory, rather than have more shocking revelations, the newspaper reading public was avid for sensation, and dissatisfied at the failure of the police to arrest anybody, even the hypothetical burglar.

  Owing to the prominence of the victim, both socially and in the art world, a great hue and cry was raised for vengeance where vengeance was due. All sorts of theories were propounded by all sorts of people and interest increased rather than dwindled as no definite progress was reported.

  Captain Steele was one of the most able men on the force, and his record for success in murder cases was of the best. His reputation was at stake, and he was working his very hardest in his handling of the present matter. His methods were persistent rather than brilliant, and his slowness was often the despair of quick-witted Robert Roberts.

  “Captain,” Bobsy would say, “do you see that point?”

  “I saw it long ago,” would be the exasperating reply.

  “Well, what about it?”

  “I haven’t thought it out yet.”

  “Well, get busy.”

  “I am busy,” the stolid Captain would answer, and go on about his business.

  But the two were staunch friends and allies, and possessed the qualities that enabled them to work side by side without friction.

  “You see,” said Steele, as they were closeted in the Reception Room, “it’s more or less a psychological problem.”

  They liked this room for their confabs. The small size and convenient location suited their purpose admirably. They could shut its two doors, and be entirely secluded or they could open them and get a general idea of what was going on about the house.

  “Snug little box,” Bobsy had said, when he first saw it, and the walls and ceiling being all of the same general decoration in red and gold, did give it the effect of a well lined box. It was used by the family for the reception of transient callers, and was more formal than the studio or Billiard Room. The Terrace, too, was used as a living place, in available weather, and even now as the two men were deep in their discussion, there could be seen through the south window some servants arranging a small breakfast table out there.

  “Psychology is out of my line,” Roberts said, in answer to the Captain’s assertion.

  “Oh, I don’t mean anything scientific. But, it’s this way. One of those women is lying and one telling the truth. Now, if we tax them with this, we’ll get nothing out of them, for they’re both at the edge of a nervous breakdown.”

  “The innocent one, too?”

  “Sure. The guilty one is naturally all wrought up, and the innocent one is so scared at the whole thing that she is all in, too. I think the little peach was in love with the artist; I’m not sure of this, but it doesn’t matter, anyway. Also, and incidentally, I think that Courtenay man is very much in love with Mrs. Stannard. Now, all these things are none of our business, unless they help us to form conclusions that are our business. And so, we must be rather more tactful and diplomatic than usual, because of dealing with highstrung and fine-calibred natures.”

  “A murder doesn’t connote a high-calibred nature!”

  “It may well do so. A strong impulse of revenge or jealousy could, on occasion, sway the highest mind to the basest deed. Murderers are made, not born, Lombroso to the contrary, notwithstanding. And it is the coincidence of opportunity and motive that makes crime possible to an otherwise great and noble nature.”

  “I’m not sure I agree to all that, but if the argument is helpful let’s use it by all means.”

  “It is. Now, here’s the situation. As near as I can make out, Mr. Stannard was alone in his studio after the Truxton people had gone; the Faulkner lady and her admirer had gone to the Drawing Room, the model was on the Terrace with Barry, and Mrs. Joyce was in the Billiard Room with Courtenay. The trouble is, we don’t know how long this interval was. Blake says the Truxtons went at eleven. Well, from eleven, then, till eleven-thirty covers the whole time in question. Between those two moments the crime was led up to and committed.”

  “Must it have been led up to?”

  “Not necessarily, I admit. But suppose, let us say, that soon after eleven, one or other of the two women we’re considering, was left alone. Say she came into the studio and had some sort of session with Mr. Stannard that led to the stabbing. Then, say, she turned off the lights, and quickly returned to her post, either in the Billiard Room or on the Terrace, and a moment later, entered again, just as she says she did.”

  “All right, that goes. Now, which?”

  “That’s what we must discover by studying the two women, not by hunting clues of a material nature.”

  “Whichever did it, or whoever did it, had to cross to the other end of the room to turn off the lights, didn’t she?”

  Captain Steele remembered the switch was near the hall door, and the armchair where Stannard died was at the South end of the room.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “but that’s only a few seconds’ work.”

  “But when she did it, the man was not dead. You know he groaned after the light went out, and later, he spoke.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, can you imagine that little girl having nerve enough for all that? Mrs. Stannard is a much older woman, and a self-possessed one. My opinion leans toward her.”

  “What about the dying words of the man, and also, what about that letter to the model?”

  “There’s too much evidence instead of not enough! But before we sift it out, which we can do elsewhere, let’s try to learn something more from the people here.”

  “Servants or the others?”

  “The others, if possible. If not, then some servants beside Blake.”

  The breakfast table on the Terrace had been visited only by Mrs. Faulkner and Barry Stannard. The other ladies had not appeared. The two had quite evidently finished, as the men could see from their lace curtained window, and Roberts proposed they request an interview with one or both of them.

  Somewhat to their surprise, the request was graciously granted. Mrs. Faulkner said she should be rather glad of an opportunity to learn what the police had done or were thinking of doing, and Barry seemed anxious to discuss matters also.

  But even before they began, Barry was called
away on some errand, and Mrs. Faulkner was their only source of information.

  Bobsy Roberts was disappointed, for he wanted to talk with a member of the immediate family, but Captain Steele saw a chance to learn something personal of the two women he wished to study.

  “You must know, Mrs. Faulkner,” began Steele, “that the two women found in the room, near the dying man, are naturally under grave suspicion of guilt. Can you tell us anything that will help clear the innocent or indicate the criminal?”

  Beatrice looked at him a moment, before she spoke. She also glanced at Bobsy Roberts, and then, in a low, calm voice she replied: “I think I must remind you that these two women are my dear friends. I have known Mrs. Stannard for years, and Miss Vernon, though a recent acquaintance, is very dear to me. They are both fine, noble women, utterly incapable of the crime, even under deepest provocation. Therefore I do not admit, even to myself, that the circumstances implicate either of them, although they may seem to do so. With this declaration of my attitude in the matter, I will answer any questions that I can, but I will not agree that your theory is the right one.”

  “Then, who did kill Mr. Stannard?”

  “That I cannot say. But in absence of any real evidence against Mrs. Stannard or Miss Vernon, it must seem to have been an intruder of some sort. Though it may not be known how he entered, it is far more easy to believe that he did gain an entrance, than to believe crime of either of those two.”

  It was plain to be seen Mrs. Faulkner was determined to stand by her friends through thick and thin. So Bobsy started on another tack. “Will you tell us then something of the personal relations of this household? Was Mr. Stannard in love with his pretty model?”

  “I think he was,” Beatrice rejoined, as if the matter were of no great import, “but Mr. Stannard was the type of man known as a ‘lady-killer.’ He adored all beautiful women, and was what may be called ‘in love’ with many. His nature was so volatile and so impressionable, that his love affairs were frequent and ephemeral.”

  “Mrs. Stannard made no objection to this?”

  “I think these queries are unnecessarily personal, but I see, so far, no harm in replying. Mrs. Stannard knew so well her husband’s temperament and disposition, that usually she laughed at his sudden adorations, knowing that he tired of them very quickly. The Stannards were a model and a modern couple. They never stooped to petty jealousies or bickerings, and had wide tolerance for each other’s actions.”

  “Mrs. Stannard is his second wife, is she not?”

  “Yes, they were married something more than two years ago.”

  “And Mrs. Stannard had other suitors, who were disappointed at her marriage?”

  “That is usually true of any beautiful woman.”

  “But in her case you know of instances?” Bobsy smiled pleasantly.

  “Naturally, as I know her so well.”

  “And is Mr. Courtenay one of them?”

  “Mr. Courtenay was one of her devoted admirers, and since the marriage he has been a friend warmly welcomed here by both Mr. and Mrs. Stannard. No breath of reproach may be brought against Joyce Stannard or Eugene Courtenay. Of this I can assure you.”

  “And the young lady,—is Barry Stannard a suitor of hers?”

  Beatrice’s face clouded a little. “Yes; you cannot help seeing that, so I will tell you that he is madly in love with Miss Vernon, but his father strongly objected to the match, and threatened to disinherit Barry if he persisted in his attentions to the girl. I tell you this, because I prefer you to hear the truth from me, rather than a string of garbled gossip.”

  “And young Stannard persisted?”

  “I think so. It was love at first sight on both sides, and Miss Vernon is a very lovely girl,—of quite as lovely a nature as her pure sweet face indicates.”

  “Might not Mr. Stannard’s objection to his son’s suit have been prompted by his own admiration for the lovely nature?”

  “It might have been,” and Beatrice sighed. “Eric Stannard was an exceedingly selfish man, and though his interest in the model was doubtless his usual temporary love affair, it is quite likely that it was the main motive of his displeasure at his son’s interference. I am speaking very frankly, for I know these things must all come out, and I am hoping, if you know just how matters are, you will understand the case better and be more prepared to relieve the two women of suspicion.”

  “It may be so,” and Captain Steele nodded his head sagely.

  But Mrs. Faulkner was watching him closely. “You are not yet very greatly influenced by my revelations, I can see,” she said, “but I am sure you will come around to my way of thinking, sooner or later. The more you see of your suspects, the more you will realise the absurdity of your suspicions.”

  “That’s possibly true. When can we have an interview with either of them?”

  “Mrs. Stannard is prostrated. I am sure you cannot see her before the funeral, which will be to-morrow. Won’t you refrain from asking it, until after that?”

  “Certainly. But Miss Vernon, may we not have a few words with her? You must realise, Mrs. Faulkner, if the girl is innocent, it will be much better for her to see us and answer a few straightforward questions than to appear unwilling to do so.”

  “I agree with you. I will go and ask her, myself, and advise her to see you. Shall I go now?”

  “In a moment, please; but first, one more question. We are trying to discover who last saw Mr. Stannard alive, prior to the time of the murder. What can you tell us as to this?”

  “Only that I was in the studio, just before the first of the guests went away. At that time we were all there, I think, except Barry and Natalie, who were out on the Terrace. The two Truxtons went home, and at the same time Mr. Wadsworth and I went up to the Drawing Room——”

  “To be by yourselves?”

  A certain kindliness in Bobsy’s tone robbed the question of impertinence, and Beatrice smiled a little, as she said, “Yes, exactly. We stayed there perhaps a half hour, and then Mr. Wadsworth went home. I did not go downstairs with him, but sat a moment in the Drawing Room,—thinking over some personal matters. Then when I went downstairs, it was to see Blake listening at the door,—and the rest you know.”

  “Yes; now whom did you leave in the studio, when you and Mr. Wadsworth and the Truxtons went out of it?”

  Beatrice thought a moment. “Only Mr. Stannard, his wife and Mr. Courtenay.”

  “Then Mrs. Stannard and Mr. Courtenay went into the Billiard Room?”

  “Yes, and Mr. Stannard went, too. But he went back in the studio,—Joyce told me that,—and he must have been there alone when—the person who killed him came in.”

  “This would make it, that Mr. Stannard returned to his studio from the Billiard Room at a little after eleven, say, five or ten minutes after. The fact that he cried out for help at about eleven-thirty narrows the time down rather close. We have only about twenty minutes for the intruder to enter and commit the deed. This is long enough if the crime was premeditated, but scarcely giving time for a quarrel or argument to take place.”

  “Then you assume premeditation?” and Beatrice looked up quickly.

  “It would seem so.”

  “Then I am sure you will find, Mr. Roberts, that it could not have been either of the two you think. For even if one of them might have done such a thing in the heat of passion, neither, I am positive, ever deliberately premeditated it.”

  “What about the letter found in the desk?”

  “That,” and Beatrice shook her head emphatically, “that was never meant for Miss Vernon.”

  “Yet Mrs. Stannard overheard him say practically the same thing to somebody in the studio, a moment or two before the crime was committed.”

  “Joyce thinks she heard that. But Captain Steele, that poor woman scarcely knew what she was saying at that awful inquest, and she—well, she had reason to think there were women in Mr. Stannard’s life, who would be willing,—in fact, who wished him to be divo
rced from her. She knew this, she knew of that note he had written,—it was not the first of that nature, and she imagined she heard that speech.”

  “You make Mr. Stannard out a very bad man, Mrs. Faulkner.”

  “I am sorry to speak ill of the dead, but he was not a good man in the ways we are talking of. In other respects, Eric Stannard had few faults. He was upright, honest and generous. He was kind and he was truthful. And he was extraordinarily brave and honourable. But he was inordinately selfish and of sybaritic instincts. He would not try to curb his admiration for a new and pretty face, and though absolutely loyal to his wife in honour and principle he was a flirt and a gallant, much in the way of a butterfly among the flowers. His genius it is not necessary to speak of. He is known here and abroad as one of the greatest artists of the century. And his wide and varied experiences, his cosmopolitan life and his waywardness of character may well have gained him enemies, who in a secret and clever manner found means to take his life.”

  “Who will benefit financially by his death?” Captain Steele asked abruptly.

  “I haven’t heard anything about the will yet, but I’m pretty certain, that outside of a few friendly bequests his fortune is divided between his wife and son, about equally.”

  “And his jewel collection? Is not that valuable?”

  “Very. The emeralds mentioned in that note comprise a fortune in wonderfully matched stones. And there are many more. Yes, it is an exceedingly valuable lot.”

  “He showed them to Mr. Truxton, that evening?”

  “To all of us. That was right after dinner. He showed only a few cases, but of very beautiful stones.”

  “And then he put them away, where?”

  “I’ve no idea. They were not in sight, that I remember, when the Truxtons took leave. But I gave them no thought. I’ve often seen them, and after their exhibition, Mr. Stannard always puts them in his safe himself.”