The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Carolyn Wells

  “Old stuff,” said Bobsy Roberts to Barry, in a low whisper. But Barry shook his head. He would not commit himself until the experiment was over.

  “Will you get some paper and envelopes?” asked Orienta. “Any sort will do.”

  Barry rose and went to the desk nearest to him. There was a small paper pad, and in a pigeon-hole were several small envelopes.

  “Will these do?” he asked.

  “Any kind will do,” said Orienta, wearily, rather than petulantly.

  Bobsy looked at her closely. Surely she wasn’t at all particular about the materials used. He must watch carefully for hocus pocus, if he was to discover any.

  “Ink or pencil?” said Barry.

  “It doesn’t matter,” and Orienta was almost irritated now. “I’m not doing legerdemain tricks, with prepared paraphernalia!”

  Barry, a little embarrassed, picked up a pencil, but in trying it, broke off its point. So he took ink, and wrote on the top slip of the pad a short question. This he tore off and passed the pad to Joyce.

  At last, each had written a question, signed the slip, tucked it in an envelope and sealed the envelope. Also each put a small private mark on the outside of his or her envelope to distinguish it again.

  “Collect them, Mr. Roberts, please,” said Orienta, with a gentle smile.

  Bobsy put the five envelopes in a little pack and held them.

  “Now,” said Orienta, “I propose to read these questions in the dark and without opening the envelopes. It is no trick, as you can readily see for yourselves, but I must ask you to sit quietly and not ask questions until I have finished. Then ask whatever you choose. If you please, Mr. Roberts, hand me the envelopes, and then turn off the lights. Or, stay, turn off the lights first, that there may be no chance of my seeing even a mark on the outside.”

  Bobsy did exactly as directed. Orienta sat in a large chair, facing the others, who sat in a row before her. The lights were arranged so that Bobsy might turn off all at the main switch, save one small table light, which would give him opportunity to regain his seat, and then this could be also turned off.

  With everybody raptly watching, Roberts, holding the envelopes, turned off the lights. The room was dark, save for the one shaded lamp glowing on a small table. Then he handed the lot of sealed envelopes to Orienta, who took them in a hand-clasp that precluded her seeing any detail of them. In another second, Bobsy had taken his seat, and snapped off the last small light. The room was in perfect darkness. Barry’s hand stole out and clasped Natalie’s, but otherwise there was no movement on the part of any one.

  Not a second seemed to have passed before Orienta’s soft voice was heard.

  “I will read the questions,” she said, “in the order they were given me. This is the first: ‘Who is Goldenheart?’ It is signed Joyce Stannard. This is the answer, as my mind sees it. A woman sitting on a rocky seat near a rushing brook or river. There is a man near her. He bends above her, and speaks endearing words. He calls her Marie, she calls him Eric. She is small and pale. Her hair is Titian red. Though not beautiful, she is attractive in a pathetic way. Ah, the vision is gone.”

  As the low voice ceased, there was a slight rustle as of some one about to speak.

  “No questions, please,” said Orienta, “unless you want this experiment to stop right here. I will now read the contents of the next envelope. This is, ‘Who marred my etched picture?’ signed Natalie Vernon. My mind sees the artist who made it, himself scratching it. He is in a fury. It is because he does not feel satisfied with his own work. He mutters, ‘Not right! no, not right, yet!’ There is no one with him. He is alone. The vision fades.”

  Orienta paused, and gave a little soft sigh, as if exhausted. But in a moment she spoke again. “You know,” she said, “if you prefer to have the lights, it doesn’t matter at all to me. I read these in the dark because I think if the room were lighted you might suppose I saw the message in some way by means of my physical eyes. It is not so, but if you prefer the light, turn it on.”

  “I do,” cried Roberts, and before any one could object, he snapped on the table light and then the main key which flooded the big room with illumination.

  Orienta smiled. “I thought you were sceptical, Mr. Roberts,” she said. And then, as if his doubts were of little consequence, she said, “Shall I proceed?”

  Joyce nodded, but she shot a gleam of annoyance and reproof at Bobsy Roberts, who looked a little crestfallen, but determined to take no chances.

  Orienta picked up the next envelope. She had laid aside on a table the two she had read.

  She did not look at the envelope she now held, but looked straight at Roberts, as if to convince him of her honesty.

  “This is signed Beatrice Faulkner, and it says, ‘Where are the lost jewels?’ My mind sees this picture. The jewels, not lost, but safely hidden. They are in a strong box, not a safe, more like a metal-bound trunk. I cannot tell where this box is, but it is in a bare place, like a store room or safety place of some sort. The vision goes.”

  “May we speak?” asked Natalie, eagerly.

  “Not yet, please,” and the Priestess smiled at her. “May I not have my conditions complied with?”

  “Keep still, Natalie,” said Barry. “Let her have fair play.”

  “This is Mr. Stannard’s question,” and Orienta held another envelope in her long fingers, “‘Would it not be wiser not to attempt to solve the mystery, but to hush up the whole matter?’ My mind sees a picture. It is vague, there is no detail, but it is bright and beautiful. There are fair flowers and soft colours. They shift, like a kaleidoscope, but always rosy and lovely. It means, yes, it would be better to give up trying to solve the riddle.

  “And now,” Orienta spoke in a distinctly scornful voice, “there is but one more, Mr. Roberts’ envelope. In it he has written, ‘Are you a fraud?’ I answer this as carefully as I do the others. My mind shows me myself, and I see my honest attempts to do my duty and to read aright. No, I am not a fraud. That is all.”

  “For shame, Mr. Roberts!” cried Joyce, angrily. “I am sorry I asked you here to-night, and I will now ask that you go away. I am more than interested in Orienta’s work, I am enthralled, and I refuse to have it interrupted or interfered with by your unjust suspicions and rude behaviour! Please go away, and let us continue our experiments in peace.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Stannard, please let me stay,” begged the penitent Bobsy; “I’ll be good, I promise you. You see, I’m so interested in the thing, I wrote that to test it, and Madame Orienta came through with flying colours. If you will let me remain, I promise not to offend again, in any particular.”

  Bobsy had a way with him, and Orienta herself smiled a little as she said, “Let him stay. I’m glad to convince him.”

  So Bobsy staid.

  Then Barry proposed that they try the same test over again, but without signing their papers. “Thus,” he said, “we will feel more free to ask what we choose.”

  Orienta agreed, and again each wrote a question, and sealed it in an envelope.

  “Seal them with wax, if you wish,” said the Priestess, smiling at Bobsy. “I see there is a sealing set right there on the desk.”

  So Bobsy and Natalie sealed their envelopes, and stamped them with their rings.

  “I won’t do that,” said Joyce, “it’s too silly. We all know there’s no trick in it.”

  “Shall I read these in the dark or in the light?” asked Orienta, as Bobsy held the five missives toward her.

  “Why not as you did before?” said Beatrice, “part of them in darkness and part in light. I think those read in the dark even more wonderful than in the light.”

  “So do I,” agreed Joyce. “But we’ll try both ways. Which first?”

  “You may choose,” said the Priestess.

  “Dark, then,” replied Joyce.

  So again the room was made totally dark, and immediately came Orienta’s soft, velvety tones.

  “‘Will what I fear ever happen?�
�” she read slowly. Then she sighed, “I cannot say, my child.” Every one present knew she spoke to Natalie, although the question had not been signed. “I hope not,—I think not,—but the vision is clouded. It is better that you forget all. Forget the past, live for a bright and happy future. The vision fades.”

  They had come to know that that last phrase meant the end of a subject, and the next one would ensue.

  With scarcely a pause and without hesitation, Orienta went on:

  “‘What can I do to help?’” No hint was needed, for all felt sure this was Beatrice Faulkner’s question.

  The Priestess spoke impersonally, in even tones, and said: “Nothing more than you are doing. Your kindness, cheer and sympathy are needed here and they are appreciated.”

  “The rest in the light?” asked Bobsy Roberts, impatiently.

  “If you choose,” returned Joyce, and Roberts switched on the electrics.

  Orienta, with closed eyes, sat holding the next envelope in readiness. She seemed not to know or care whether it was light or dark.

  “‘Am I doing right?’” she read. For an instant the long lashes on the cheeks of the Priestess lifted, and she flashed a momentary glance at Joyce. “Yes, you are doing right. Continue in the procedure you have planned.”

  A look of contentment passed over Joyce’s face. She showed intense relief, and oblivious to the others’ curious glances she drew a long sigh and relaxed in her chair.

  Clearly, it made no difference to Orienta that the questions were not signed. She knew at once who wrote each. Next came Barry’s.

  Still with her eyes closed, she held it out toward him, and read, “‘Will the truth ever be known?’”

  There was a perceptible pause before she said, “You do not want it known, because you fear it. But your secret is safe. That, at least, will never be known.”

  Bobsy Roberts listened attentively. So Barry Stannard had a secret. Pshaw! Not necessarily because this faker said so! And yet, was she a faker? Bobsy looked at her. He himself had put those sealed envelopes into that long, inert hand. There they were still, intact, seals unbroken, and the reader paying no more attention to them than as if they were so much blank paper. Whatever her power, it was superhuman. No physical vision could read through those opaque envelopes, or if such sight might be, it could not operate in total darkness. No, there was no chance for trickery. It was a supernatural gift of some sort.

  His own envelope came last. He had boldly written, “Who killed Eric Stannard?” a question no one else had felt like putting down in crude words.

  Orienta read it, her hand clasped over the envelope and her eyes closed.

  “At last,” she murmured, in a strained, whispering voice, “at last we come to the vital question. It matters not who wrote it, it is what each one wanted to write. Shall I answer?”

  There was silence.

  CHAPTER XII

  A Vision

  It was curious to note the various expressions that met the eyes of the Priestess.

  Bobsy Roberts regarded her with awe. All his scepticism was gone; he was ready to believe anything she might say. She had stood the severest tests, had tossed them aside without noticing them, and had come triumphant through the experimental ordeal. Surely, if she revealed anything hitherto unknown, it would be the truth. But could she do that?

  Natalie and Barry both showed fear. Strive to hide it as they would, it lurked in their staring eyes, it was evident in their restless hands, and as if moved by the same thought, they turned and gazed at each other.

  Beatrice Faulkner looked troubled. She saw the two young people in their distress, and she looked at the Detective furtively.

  Joyce, however, was the one to whom all turned, breathlessly awaiting her decision.

  “Yes,” she said, and her voice rang out with its note of determination, “yes, Madame Orienta, tell all you know,—all you can learn by your mystic power.”

  As if in obedience to a command, the graceful figure of the Mystic fell into a languid pose. Her arms fell limply, her head drooped a very little to one side. Her eyes were open, but seemed to be unseeing, for her glance was fixed, as if watching a mirage.

  She looked directly toward the chair where Stannard had died. Her half-vacant glance centred on it, and in a moment she began speaking. She sounded as one in a trance. She was alive but not alert, like one sleep-walking or talking in a dream.

  “I see it all,—clearly. I see the artist in his favourite chair. He is at his work,—no, not working, but gazing at something, criticising work that he has done. It is not a picture—it is a small panel. He takes up a tool,—an instrument, a sharp, pointed one. He hesitates, and then with a sudden angry exclamation, he scratches and mars the work. It pleases him that he has done so, and he smiles. A man enters.”

  There was a stir among her audience. The tension was too great. Barry sought Natalie’s hand and clasped it tightly. Roberts shot glances quickly from one to another, but returned his gaze at once to the speaker. Joyce and Beatrice leaned forward, fairly hanging on the words of revelation.

  “The man,—he is big and dark,—confronts the artist as he sits. The intruder, without a word, grasps the sharp tool from the fingers of the one who holds it, and thrusts it into the breast of his victim. He darts across the room, turns off all light, and—it is so black,—I cannot see him depart. But—I hear him—I hear his stealthy tread. He comes back, past the dying man,—he hears a groan,—he pauses,—I can see nothing, but I hear two come in at opposite doors. They stand, breathing heavily in fear—in horror of—they know not what. As they stand, half-dazed—I hear the man—the murderer slip past one of them, and out of the room. The light flashes on. The room is dazzlingly bright. I see the two who first entered. They are women. They gaze affrightedly at each other and then at the man in the chair. Two others have appeared. They are at the other end of the long room. It must have been one of these who flashed the light on. They are a man,—a servant he is,—and a woman. Both are terrorised at what they see. The two women near the chair of the dying man accuse each other of the crime. But this is the frenzied cry of shock and fright. They do not mean it—they scarce know what they utter. The dying man raises his head in a final effort of life. He sees the scene with the clearness of the dying brain. He hears the servant say, ‘Who did this?’ He replies, with upraised, shaking finger—‘Natalie—nor Joyce.’ He means neither of these innocent women was concerned. He tries to tell more, to tell of his assailant, but Death claims him. His voice ceases, his heart stops beating,—he is gone. That is all. With his last breath he tried to say, ‘Neither Natalie nor Joyce,’ but his failing speech rendered the words unintelligible. The vision fades.”

  Orienta ceased speaking, her eyes drooped shut and she lay back in her chair as one asleep.

  The silence remained unbroken for a minute or more. The beautiful voice still rang in their ears. They were still back in the scene they had heard described. The vividly drawn picture was still with them, and there was no reaction until Bobsy Roberts said, in a tone of awed belief, “By Jove!”

  Then the stunned figures moved. Beatrice looked at Joyce with a smile of deep thankfulness, and then turned to smile at Natalie. The girl was radiant. She had sensed acutely the whole scene, and she realised perfectly what the revelation meant. Barry was looking at her adoringly, and his face was full of triumphant joy.

  Joyce looked still a bit dazed. Had the experiment really proved so much more successful than she had dared to hope? She looked at Roberts. He was scribbling fast in a notebook, lest some point of the story escape his memory.

  Orienta opened her eyes, roused her long, exquisite figure to an upright posture, and passed her hand gently across her brow.

  “Is it enough?” she asked. “Are you satisfied?”

  “May we ask questions?” eagerly exclaimed Bobsy.

  “Yes, but only important ones. I am very weary.”

  “Then please describe more fully the man who struck the blow.�
��

  Again Orienta’s eyes fastened themselves on the big armchair.

  “I see him clearly,” she said, clasping her hands in her tense concentration, “but his back is toward me as he bends over his victim.”

  “How is he dressed?”

  “I cannot quite tell. His figure is vague. His clothes seem merely a dark shadow against the light.”

  “Does it seem to be evening dress?”

  “It may be. I cannot say, surely.”

  “At any rate, it is not the rough dress of a tramp or burglar?”

  “No,—not that, I think.”

  “He is not masked?”

  “No.”

  “You say he is dark? Pardon me, Madame, but it is my duty to get these details.”

  “Yes, his hair, as I see it, is dark.”

  “And he has a round, smooth-shaven face?” Roberts spoke eagerly, as if he had in mind a distinct personality.

  “No,” said Orienta slowly. “No, he has a long, thin face——”

  “Can you see his face, then?” Bobsy fairly shot out the words.

  “Not his face, but an indication of his profile——”

  “Then is he clean-shaven?”

  “No, he wears a beard.”

  “Oh. A dark beard? A heavy one?”

  “Dark, yes. But not heavy.”

  “Pointed or full?”

  “Somewhat pointed—ah, he has turned away. I cannot tell.”

  “Is he wearing a hat? But, no, you see his hair.”

  “I see no hat.”

  “Is there a hat on the table? On a chair?”

  “I cannot tell. The vision fades.”

  “Let up, Roberts,” said Barry. “We are sure now the man was an intruder. Let it go at that. If you can find such a one, it won’t matter whether he had a hat or not.”

  “It is important,” insisted Bobsy. “Now, Madame Orienta, tell us again of his actions. Even if the vision has faded, tell from your memory what he did. You saw him when he crossed the room toward the hall door. It was light then?”