The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Carolyn Wells

  “Barry Stannard.”

  “And Mrs. Stannard?”

  “I can’t say. She read the will, but made no comment.”

  “You’re sure Barry knows?”

  “I am.”

  “And he stands for it because Miss Vernon did it! That baby! Who’d think her capable of such a thing?”

  “Hush, Mr. Courtenay. You’ve no right to accuse her. You’ve no evidence that she did it. In fact, I’m told Miss Vernon writes a large, dashing hand, and this——”

  “And Eric Stannard’s hand is small and cramped. Yes, a clever forgery. It looks quite a bit like his own writing. But the ink is different, the slant is different, why, a half blind man could see the words have been changed!”

  “Granting that. What matter, if Barry Stannard doesn’t care? Moreover, he is going to marry Miss Vernon, and the fortune will be theirs jointly.”

  “But don’t you see? If Natalie Vernon altered that will, she wanted that larger sum, and—she——”

  “Don’t say it. At least, don’t say it to me. If you want to put the matter up to Barry, go ahead. But I decline to express an opinion or form a conclusion.”

  “What does Barry say?”

  “He ignores it. I called his attention to it, and he said, ‘Changed figures? Oh, I guess not. It doesn’t matter, anyway; that, and more, will be at Miss Vernon’s disposal some day.’ So I said no more.”

  * * * *

  Eugene Courtenay went straight to Joyce.

  “Do you know anything about a changed figure in Eric’s will?” he asked, bluntly.

  “No,” she returned; “what do you mean?”

  “Natalie Vernon altered her bequest from seven thousand dollars to seventy thousand.”

  “How could she?”

  “It wasn’t difficult. Eric wrote the will himself. He wrote seven and she made it seventy—the words, I mean. Then he wrote a figure seven and three ciphers, and she squeezed in another cipher. Mighty clever work, but as plain to be seen as a blot on a letter.”

  “What possessed the child?”

  “Don’t call her a child. The woman who could and would do that, is a Machiavelli in petticoats. But don’t you see where the knowledge of her act leads us?”

  “You mean——” Joyce could not say it.

  “Of course I do. I’ve thought all along there was still a doubt of her.”

  “Oh, I haven’t. Even if she did alter the will, that doesn’t prove——”

  “It doesn’t prove—anything. But you know this will was made very recently——”

  “Of course; Natalie has only been here two months.”

  “I know it. Well, say, Eric made this bequest to her, soon after she came—you know, Joyce, he was crazy over her from the very beginning——”

  “Yes, I know it, Eugene.”

  “And then, when she got a chance, she changed it, and, why, why would she do this, except to inherit—at once?”

  “Natalie! That dear little thing! Never! I did suspect her the least mite, just at first—but I don’t now.”

  “Barry does.”

  “Oh, no! He can’t.”

  “He does. And that’s why he didn’t want any fuss made about her forgery——”

  “Don’t call it that!”

  “It is that. What else can I call it?”

  “But I can’t believe it. Maybe—maybe somebody else did it. Barry——”

  “Nonsense! Why should Barry do it, when he fully intended to marry her?”

  “Oh, I don’t know! It’s all so confusing.”

  “Not confusing; there’s no doubt she did the forging. But it’s a terrible state of affairs. I don’t want to be the one to accuse her.”

  “Must you?”

  “Well, I’d determined to sift things to the bottom to lay my hand on Eric’s murderer. Primarily to clear myself—for your sake. And, too, for the sake of justice and right. I’ll go now, Joyce, I must think this out alone. Good-bye, darling. Don’t worry. I’ll do only what is right, and—what you approve.”

  CHAPTER XV

  Natalie in Danger

  “Natalie! What are you doing?”

  Joyce entered Natalie’s room, to find her on her knees before an open trunk. Hats and gowns lay about the room, the wardrobe shelves were empty, and as the girl was fairly flinging wearing apparel into the tills, the question was superfluous.

  “I’m packing,” the model answered, “to go away.”

  “Why, what has happened? Why do you want to go?”

  Natalie rose to her feet. A negligée of pale green Liberty silk fell in lovely folds about her, her slender arms were bare, and her gold hair hung in two long braids.

  “I can’t stand it any longer, Joyce,” she said, her voice quivering. “It’s all so dreadful. Suspicion everywhere, and everybody looking on me as a murderer, and——”

  “Now, Natalie, dear, don’t talk like that. And, anyway, you can’t go. I don’t believe they’d let you——”

  “Why not? I’m not under arrest, or surveillance, or whatever they call it.”

  “You would be, if you tried to go away. Don’t you know we are all watched—whatever we do or wherever we go?”

  “But they don’t suspect you any more, Joyce, and you were found just as near Eric as I was, when—when he——”

  “Hush, Natalie, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Why, now they suspect Eugene.”

  “I know they do, but he didn’t do it. He’ll soon convince them of that.”

  “I’m not sure that he can. And—suppose he did do it——”

  “Kill Eric? Joyce, you’re crazy! Why would he?”

  “You know, well enough——”

  “That he loved you, yes, but that wouldn’t make him commit crime. Why, you wouldn’t marry him if he won you in that way.”

  “Of course, I wouldn’t. And that’s what’s worrying me. If he and Eric quarrelled about me, and if—oh, I can’t tell you just what I mean——”

  “I know. If Eugene reproved Eric for his neglect of you, or—for his attentions to me, it might have led to high words, and Mr. Courtenay is a very impetuous man, and Eric never would brook a word of criticism—oh, of course I understand, Joyce!”

  “But Eugene must be cleared—he must be, at any cost. Look here, Natalie, did you know Eric had left you such a big bequest?”

  Natalie flushed, and began to walk nervously up and down the room. “Why,” she said, not looking at Joyce, “he told me he’d leave me a nice little sum, but he said he wasn’t going to die till he was ninety, so I didn’t pay much attention to the matter.”

  “But didn’t you know the sum he mentioned in his will? Had he never told you?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because that will was altered. The sum he wrote for you was made ten times greater.”

  “Was it?” Natalie spoke slowly, as if to gain time.

  “Yes, it was. You knew this?”

  “How could I know it? I never saw the will.”

  “They think you did. They think you altered it.”

  “Who thinks so?”

  “The police and Mr. Stiles. And Eugene asked me about it. I thought I’d ask you before anybody else did.”

  “That was dear of you, Joyce.” Natalie sat down on a couch, and taking her chin in her two palms, sat silent a moment. “Joyce,” she said, at last, “why are you good to me? You think I killed Eric——”

  “No, I don’t, Natalie——But, oh, don’t you see? I don’t want to think it was Eugene, and—I don’t know which way to turn.”

  “You’re not in such a terrible strait as I am, Joyce,” and Natalie’s blue eyes turned dark with sadness unutterable. “I don’t know what to do—I’ve no one to ask, no one to confide in——”

  “Can’t you tell me?”

  “You, least of all. Mrs. Faulkner is a dear, but she is so unwilling to admit she suspects anybody—I mean, anybody we know. She insists it was some stranger—and, it
wasn’t—I mean—oh—what am I saying? Joyce, I shall go crazy.”

  Natalie looked distraught. Her eyes had a wild look, as of a hunted animal. Her little fingers plucked at the silk of her robe, and her slippered foot tapped the rug continuously.

  “You didn’t love Eric, did you?” and Joyce looked at the girl, as if seized with a new idea.

  “No! I hated him! Forgive me, Joyce, but I can’t help it. He was almost repulsive to me. Not physically—he was handsome, and most correct-mannered, and all that. But I was afraid of him. I’ve only posed for a few artists, but they were all—you know—impersonal in their relations with me. But Eric made love to me from the first.”

  “I know it. I saw it.”

  “And you didn’t resent it?”

  “I felt more pity for you than jealousy of you. I know Eric, and oh, Natalie, I tried so hard to be good, and to do my duty—but Eugene was always around, you know—and, must I confess it? I was rather glad that Eric’s attention was taken up with his model.”

  “I know. I saw all that. But you see, I care for Barry. And Eric told me——”

  “What, Natalie?”

  “No, I can’t tell you. Oh, Joyce, I am in danger. I can’t ward it off, and I can’t meet it. What shall I do? What can I do?”

  “May I come in?” and Barry appeared at the door of the boudoir.

  “Yes,” Joyce answered. “Come on in. This child says she is going away.”

  “She isn’t!” and Barry slammed the trunk lid shut, turned the key, removed it and put it in his pocket.

  “Oh,” cried Natalie, forced to smile at this high-handed piece of business. “There’s a lot of things in there I want!”

  “Can’t have ’em,” returned Barry, “unless you promise to put ’em back in that very empty wardrobe I see yawning at us.”

  “Barry, I must go away. I’ve—I’ve good reasons.”

  Joyce had left the room, and Barry sat down beside the trembling little figure and put an arm round her.

  “Don’t speak of going away, Natalie. Don’t think of it. It would look like confession.”

  “Have you heard about the will?” she asked, an awestruck note in her voice.

  “Yes, but never mind about that. When we can get married, all my half the fortune will be yours anyway. That item of seven thousand or seventy thousand makes no difference to us.”

  “But you don’t think I—forged it—do you, Barry?”

  “Of course not, darling. I don’t think you ever did a wrong thing in your life, of any sort or description—and I wouldn’t care if you had.”

  “Wouldn’t you care if I had committed—crime?”

  “Oh, if you put it that way, I suppose I’d care—but I’d love you just the same.”

  “Just the same?”

  “Just exactly, darling.”

  “And you don’t think I changed that will?”

  “I do not.”

  “Who did, do you think?”

  “How do you know anybody did?”

  “Joyce says so.”

  “Well, never mind about it. If I know who did it, I won’t tell you—and you needn’t ask.”

  “It was a very strange thing for anybody to do, Barry.”

  “Except you——”

  “Yes, except me! Oh, you do think I did it!”

  “Hush, sweetheart, don’t talk so loud. Now, listen, Natalie. You’re in a tight place. There’s no use denying it, you are. Now I want you to promise me to do exactly as I tell you, in every instance. You trust me to do only what is best for both of us, don’t you?”

  “For both of us—yes, Barry.” The blue eyes were very sad, but the soft voice did not falter.

  “That’s a trump, my own little trump! There are some dark hours ahead, darling. I don’t know just how things will turn. But I’m tying to head off trouble, and I hope to succeed.”

  “Barry, Eugene Courtenay didn’t kill Eric, did he?”

  “No, Natalie, he didn’t. That clairvoyant business was all poppycock.”

  “Then how did she read those questions, Barry? I think that was wonderful.”

  “It was, Natalie. I concede you that. She couldn’t have used any trickery there—there was absolutely no chance.”

  “She really read them, then, by clairvoyant sight?”

  “I don’t see any other explanation.”

  “Nor do I. Then, why wasn’t her vision of the—the scene in the studio, the truth?”

  “I don’t say it wasn’t. I don’t say but what somebody did slip past Joyce and get into the room that way. But it wasn’t Courtenay.”

  “I don’t think it was, either.”

  “Of course you don’t. Now, my own little girl, remember, you’ve promised me——”

  “To love, honour and obey you——”

  “You darling!” and Natalie’s speech was interrupted by an impulsive kiss. “You blessed angel! But you mustn’t say such things, they unnerve me—and I’ve a hard row to hoe, my girl.”

  “Can’t I help?”

  “Only by doing the things you just promised to do. I want you to, of course; it was only the suggestion in the phrase you used that drove me crazy! Some day, sweetheart, you shall promise before witnesses; but just now, swear to me alone, that you will obey my least dictate in this—this trouble.”

  “I will, Barry,” and, solemnly, Natalie lifted her scarlet, curved lips for the kiss that sealed the compact.

  “Mr. Roberts is here,” said Joyce, looking in at the door; “he wants to see Natalie.”

  “Oh, I can’t see him!” and Natalie clung tremblingly to Barry, “what shall I do?”

  “Do just as I tell you, dearest. See him, of course. And——”

  “Then I’ll have to dress. Go on down, Barry, and talk to him till I come.”

  Natalie seemed to turn brave all in a moment at Barry’s words. Stannard went downstairs, and Joyce helped the girl to slip into a house-gown.

  “A pretty one,” she stipulated. “I want him to like me.”

  “As if any one could help doing that,” and Joyce selected a little grey velvet, with lots of soft lace falling away from the round-cut bodice.

  “There,” she said, as Natalie hastily twisted up her hair and thrust a couple of shell pins in it, “you look a dream! a demure little dream. Natalie, be careful, won’t you?”

  The girl gave Joyce a long look, and said softly, “Yes—for his sake.” Then she went slowly downstairs.

  Bobsy Roberts was talking with Mrs. Faulkner as Natalie entered. He jumped up, and greeted the lovely girl with an impulsive, “So sorry to trouble you, but I must ask you a question or two, and I promise to cut it short.”

  “What is it?” and Natalie gave him one of her confiding smiles.

  Bobsy hesitated. How could he ask a fairy like that, a rude, blunt question. But it had to be done, and he said, “It’s—it’s about Mr. Stannard’s will. Did you ever see it?”

  Clearly, Natalie was surprised. It seemed to be not the query she had looked for. But she was calm. After the slightest pause, she said slowly, very slowly, as if choosing her words, “No, Mr. Roberts, I have never seen Mr. Stannard’s will. Why should I see it?”

  “You know he left you a large sum of money?”

  “Of course I know that. Mr. Stiles informed me.”

  “Did you not know of it before Mr. Stiles told you?”

  Natalie glanced at Barry, who smiled at her.

  “Yes; that is, I knew Mr. Stannard had left me a bequest, but I did not know how much. Nor did I care!” Natalie lost her self-control. “Do you suppose I wanted that money? I did not, and I do not! I refuse to take it!”

  “My dear child,” said Beatrice Faulkner, rising and going to sit beside her, “don’t say such things. The money is honestly yours——”

  “Not so fast, Mrs. Faulkner,” said Roberts, amazed at Natalie’s excited words; “we cannot feel sure the money honestly belongs to Miss Vernon until we know who altered Mr. Stannard’
s will. Did you?”

  He turned quickly to Natalie with his question, as if anxious to get the miserable business over.

  “Certainly not,” she replied, with disdain in every line of her face. “In the first place, Mr. Bobsy—I mean, Mr. Roberts——”

  The light laugh that greeted her slip of the tongue served to break the tension of the moment. “Forgive me,” she said, and her dimpling smile of embarrassment would have turned the head of an anchorite. “You see, I’ve heard you called that, and, though I didn’t mean to be familiar, I—I got sort of mixed up.”

  “All right, Miss Vernon, it doesn’t matter at all. One Robert’s as good as the other.”

  “It’s funny to have two names alike, isn’t it?” and Natalie’s voice shook a little.

  “Yes,” and then with an effort, Bobsy returned to the attack. “You know nothing of the change in the will, then, Miss Vernon?”

  “I certainly don’t. Did somebody change the text?”

  “Yes. It’s a mysterious affair. But if you know nothing about it, we must ferret it out as best we can.”

  He spoke lightly, but his eyes never left Natalie’s face. In fact, Roberts was by no means asking her because he attached any importance to her spoken answer, but because he hoped by her expression or by some inadvertent slip, to learn the truth, even though she tried to conceal it.

  “Mr. Roberts,” she said, suddenly, “if I wish to go away from this house, is there any reason I should not do so?”

  “I’d rather you would ask somebody else that, Miss Vernon.”

  “Whom shall I ask?”

  “Captain Steele, or——”

  “I am answered. You mean I would not be allowed to go.”

  “I think it would be better for you to remain where you are. There may be developments shortly, that will call for your presence, though they may not affect you seriously. Please don’t plan to go away just now, but, also, don’t think my advice more indicative than it is meant to be.”

  Roberts went off, and the four people he left behind him sat in a constrained silence.

  At last, Beatrice spoke. “We must all band together to save Natalie,” she said, very seriously. “There is no use deceiving ourselves; Natalie is in danger. We know and love her, so we can’t connect her in our minds with any wrong-doing, but to outsiders the case looks different. Let us, then, face conditions that exist, and plan how we can best help her.”