by Marion Bryce
It could not be that this rose matter was of no importance. For the florist had assured me he had sold exactly twelve flowers to Mr. Gregory Hall, and of these, I could account for only eleven. The twelfth rose must have been separated from the others, either by Mr. Hall, at the time of purchase, or by some one else later. If the petals found on the floor fell from that twelfth rose, and if Florence Lloyd spoke the truth when she declared she knew nothing of it, then she was free from suspicion in that direction.
But until I could make some further effort to find out about the missing rose I concluded to say nothing of it to anybody. I was not bound to tell Parmalee any points I might discover, for though colleagues, we were working independently of each other.
But as I was anxious to gather any side lights possible, I determined to go for a short conference with the district attorney, in whose hands the case had been put after the coroner’s inquest.
He was a man named Goodrich, a quiet mannered, untalkative person, and as might be expected he had made little or no progress as yet.
He said nothing could be done until after the funeral and the reading of the will, which ceremonies would occur the next afternoon.
I talked but little to Mr. Goodrich, yet I soon discovered that he strongly suspected Miss Lloyd of the crime, either as principal or accessory.
“But I can’t believe it,” I objected. “A girl, delicately brought up, in refined and luxurious surroundings, does not deliberately commit an atrocious crime.”
“A woman thwarted in her love affair will do almost anything,” declared Mr. Goodrich. “I have had more experience than you, my boy, and I advise you not to bank too much on the refined and luxurious surroundings. Sometimes such things foster crime instead of preventing it. But the truth will come out, and soon, I think. The evidence that seems to point to Miss Lloyd can be easily proved or disproved, once we get at the work in earnest. That coroner’s jury was made up of men who were friends and neighbors of Mr. Crawford. They were so prejudiced by sympathy for Miss Lloyd, and indignation at the unknown criminal, that they couldn’t give unbiased judgment. But we will yet see justice done. If Miss Lloyd is innocent, we can prove it. But remember the provocation she was under. Remember the opportunity she had, to visit her uncle alone in his office, after every one else in the house was asleep. Remember that she had a motive—a strong motive—and no one else had.”
“Except Mr. Gregory Hall,” I said meaningly.
“Yes; I grant he had the same motive. But he is known to have left town at six that evening, and did not return until nearly noon the next day. That lets him out.”
“Yes, unless he came back at midnight, and then went back to the city again.”
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Goodrich. “That’s fanciful. Why, the latest train—the theatre train, as we call it—gets in at one o’clock, and it’s always full of our society people returning from gayeties in New York. He would have been seen had he come on that train, and there is no later one.”
I didn’t stay to discuss the matter further. Indeed, Mr. Goodrich had made me feel that my theories were fanciful.
But whatever my theories might be there were still facts to be investigated.
Remembering my determination to examine that gold bag more thoroughly I asked Mr. Goodrich to let me see it, for of course, as district attorney, it was now in his possession.
He gave it to me with an approving nod. “That’s the way to work,” he said. “That bag is your evidence. Now from that, you detectives must go ahead and learn the truth.”
“Whose bag is it?” I said, with the intention of drawing him out.
“It’s Miss Lloyd’s bag,” he said gravely. “Any woman in the world would deny its ownership, in the existing circumstances, and I am not surprised that she did so. Nor do I blame her for doing so. Self preservation is a mighty strong impulse in the human heart, and we’ve all got a right to obey it.”
As I took the gold bag from his hand, I didn’t in the least believe that Florence Lloyd was the owner of it, and I resolved anew to prove this to the satisfaction of everybody concerned.
Mr. Goodrich turned away and busied himself about other matters, and I devoted myself to deep study.
The contents of the bag proved as blank and unsuggestive as ever. The most exhaustive examination of its chain, its clasp and its thousands of links gave me not the tiniest thread or shred of any sort.
But as I poked and pried around in its lining I found a card, which had slipped between the main lining and an inside pocket.
I drew it out as carefully as I could, and it proved to be a small plain visiting card bearing the engraved name, “Mrs. Egerton Purvis.”
I sat staring at it, and then furtively glanced at Mr. Goodrich. He was not observing me, and I instinctively felt that I did not wish him to know of the card until I myself had given the matter further thought.
I returned the card to its hiding place and returned the bag to Mr. Goodrich, after which I went away.
I had not copied the name, for it was indelibly photographed upon my brain. As I walked along the street I tried to construct the personality of Mrs. Egerton Purvis from her card. But I was able to make no rational deductions, except that the name sounded aristocratic, and was quite in keeping with the general effect of the bag and its contents.
To be sure I might have deduced that she was a lady of average height and size, because she wore a number six glove; that she was careful of her personal appearance, because she possessed a vanity case; that she was of tidy habits, because she evidently expected to send her gowns to be cleaned. But all these things seemed to me puerile and even ridiculous, as such characteristics would apply to thousands of woman all over the country.
Instead of this, I went straight to the telegraph office and wired to headquarters in a cipher code. I instructed them to learn the identity and whereabouts of Mrs. Egerton Purvis, and advise me as soon as possible.
Then I returned to the Sedgwick Arms, feeling decidedly well satisfied with my morning’s work, and content to wait until after Mr. Crawford’s funeral to do any further real work in the matter.
X. THE WILL
I went to the Crawford house on the day of the funeral; but as I reached there somewhat earlier than the hour appointed, I went into the office with the idea of looking about for further clues.
In the office I found Gregory Hall; looking decidedly disturbed.
“I can’t find Mr. Crawford’s will,” he said, as he successively looked through one drawer after another.
“What!” I responded. “Hasn’t that been located already?”
“No; it’s this way: I didn’t see it here in this office, or in the New York office, so I assumed Mr. Randolph had it in his possession. But it seems he thought it was here, all the time. Only this morning we discovered our mutual error, and Mr. Randolph concluded it must be in Mr. Crawford’s safety deposit box at the bank in New York. So Mr. Philip Crawford hurried through his administration papers—he is to be executor of the estate—and went in to get it from the bank. But he has just returned with the word that it wasn’t there. So we’ve no idea where it is.”
“Oh, well,” said I, “since he hadn’t yet made the new will he had in mind, everything belongs to Miss Lloyd.”
“That’s just the point,” said Hall, his face taking on a despairing look. “If we don’t find that will, she gets nothing!”
“How’s that?” I said.
“Why, she’s really not related to the Crawfords. She’s a niece of Joseph Crawford’s wife. So in the absence of a will his property will all go to his brother Philip, who is his legal heir.”
“Oho!” I exclaimed. “This is a new development. But the will will turn up.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure of it,” returned Hall, but his anxious face showed anything but confidence in his own words.
“But,” I went on, “didn’t Philip Crawford object to his brother’s giving all his fortune to Miss Lloyd?”
; “It didn’t matter if he did. Nobody could move Joseph Crawford’s determination. And I fancy Philip didn’t make any great disturbance about it. Of course, Mr. Joseph had a right to do as he chose with his own, and the will gave Philip a nice little sum, any way. Not much, compared to the whole fortune, but, still, a generous bequest.”
“What does Mr. Randolph say?”
“He’s completely baffled. He doesn’t know what to think.”
“Can it have been stolen?”
“Why, no; who would steal it? I only fear he may have destroyed it because he expected to make a different one. In that case, Florence is penniless, save for such bounty as Philip Crawford chooses to bestow on her.”
I didn’t like the tone in which Hall said this. It was distinctly aggrieved, and gave the impression that Florence Lloyd, penniless, was of far less importance than Miss Lloyd, the heiress of her uncle’s millions.
“But he would doubtless provide properly for her,” I said.
“Oh, yes, properly. But she would find herself in a very different position, dependent on his generosity, from what she would be as sole heir to her uncle’s fortune.”
I looked steadily at the man. Although not well acquainted with him, I couldn’t resist giving expression to my thought.
“But since you are to marry her,” I said, “she need not long be dependent upon her uncle’s charity.”
“Philip Crawford isn’t really her uncle, and no one can say what he will do in the matter.”
Gregory Hall was evidently greatly disturbed at the new situation brought about by the disappearance of Mr. Crawford’s will. But apparently the main reason for his disturbance was the impending poverty of his fiancée. There was no doubt that Mr. Carstairs and others who had called this man a fortune-hunter had judged him rightly.
However, without further words on the subject, I waited while Hall locked the door of the office, and then we went together to the great drawing-room, where the funeral services were about to take place.
I purposely selected a position from which I could see the faces of the group of people most nearly connected with the dead man. I had a strange feeling, as I looked at them, that one of them might be the instrument of the crime which had brought about this funeral occasion.
During the services I looked closely and in turn at each face, but beyond the natural emotions of grief which might be expected, I could read nothing more.
The brother, Philip Crawford, the near neighbors, Mr. Porter and Mr. Hamilton, the lawyer, Mr. Randolph, all sat looking grave and solemn as they heard the last words spoken above their dead friend. The ladies of the household, quietly controlling their emotions, sat near me, and next to Florence Lloyd Gregory Hall had seated himself.
All of these people I watched closely, half hoping that some inadvertent sign might tell me of someone’s knowledge of the secret. But when the clergyman referred to the retribution that would sooner or later overtake the criminal. I could see an expression of fear or apprehension on no face save that of Florence Lloyd. She turned even whiter than before, her pale lips compressed in a straight line, and her small black gloved hand softly crept into that of Gregory Hall. The movement was not generally noticeable, but it seemed to me pathetic above all things. Whatever her position in the matter, she was surely appealing to him for help and protection.
Without directly repulsing her, Hall was far from responsive. He allowed her hand to rest in his own but gave her no answering pressure, and looked distinctly relieved when, after a moment, she withdrew it.
I saw that Parmalee also had observed this, and I could see that to him it was an indication of the girl’s perturbed spirit. To me it seemed that it might equally well mean many other things. For instance it might mean her apprehension for Gregory Hall, who, I couldn’t help thinking was far more likely to be a wrongdoer than the girl herself.
With a little sigh I gave up trying to glean much information from the present opportunity, and contented myself with the melancholy pleasure it gave me simply to look at the sad sweet face of the girl who was already enshrined in my heart.
After the solemn and rather elaborate obsequies were over, a little assembly gathered in the library to hear the reading of the will.
As, until then, no one had known of the disappearance of the will, except the lawyer and the secretary, it came as a thunderbolt.
“I have no explanation to offer,” said Mr. Randolph, looking greatly concerned, but free of all personal responsibility. “Mr. Crawford always kept the will in his own possession. When he came to see me, the last evening he was alive, in regard to making a new will, he did not bring the old one with him. We arranged to meet in his office the next morning to draw up the new instrument, when he doubtless expected to destroy the old one.
“He may have destroyed it on his return home that evening. I do not know. But so far it has not been found among his papers in either of his offices or in the bank. Of course it may appear, as the search, though thorough, has not yet been exhaustive. We will, therefore, hold the matter in abeyance a few days, hoping to find the missing document.”
His hearers were variously affected by this news. Florence Lloyd was simply dazed. She could not seem to grasp a situation which so suddenly changed her prospects. For she well knew that in the event of no will being found, Joseph Crawford’s brother would be his rightful heir, and she would be legally entitled to nothing at all.
Philip Crawford sat with an utterly expressionless face. Quite able to control his emotion, if he felt any, he made no sign that he welcomed this possibility of a great fortune unexpectedly coming to him.
Lemuel Porter, who, with his wife, had remained because of their close friendship with the family, spoke out rather abruptly,
“Find it! Of course it must be found! It’s absurd to think the man destroyed one will before the other was drawn.”
“I agree with you,” said Philip Crawford.
“Joseph was very methodical in his habits, and, besides, I doubt if he would really have changed his will. I think he merely threatened it, to see if Florence persisted in keeping her engagement.”
This was a generous speech on the part of Philip Crawford. To be sure, generosity of speech couldn’t affect the disposal of the estate. If no will were found, it must by law go to the brother, but none the less the hearty, whole-souled way in which he spoke of Miss Lloyd was greatly to his credit as a man.
“I think so, too,” agreed Mr. Porter. “As you know, I called on Mr. Joseph Crawford during the—the last evening of his life.”
The speaker paused, and indeed it must have been a sad remembrance that pictured itself to his mind.
“Did he then refer to the matter of the will?” asked Mr. Randolph, in gentle tones.
“He did. Little was said on the subject, but he told me that unless Florence consented to his wishes in the matter of her engagement to Mr. Hall, he would make a new will, leaving her only a small bequest.”
“In what manner did you respond, Mr. Porter?”
“I didn’t presume to advise him definitely, but I urged him not to be too hard on the girl, and, at any rate, not to make a new will until he had thought it over more deliberately.”
“What did he then say?”
“Nothing of any definite import. He began talking of other matters, and the will was not again referred to. But I can’t help thinking he had not destroyed it.”
At this, Miss Lloyd seemed about to speak, but, glancing at Gregory Hall, she gave a little sigh, and remained silent.
“You know of nothing that can throw any light on the matter of the will, Mr. Hall?” asked Mr. Randolph.
“No, sir. Of course this whole situation is very embarrassing for me. I can only say that I have known for a long time the terms of Mr. Crawford’s existing will; I have known of his threats of changing it; I have known of his attitude toward my engagement to his niece. But I never spoke to him on any of these subjects, nor he to me, though several times I have thought
he was on the point of doing so. I have had access to most of his private papers, but of two or three small boxes he always retained the keys. I had no curiosity concerning the contents of these boxes, but I naturally assumed his will was in one of them. I have, however, opened these boxes since Mr. Crawford’s death, in company with Mr. Randolph, and we found no will. Nor could we discover any in the New York office or in the bank. That is all I know of the matter.”
Gregory Hall’s demeanor was dignified and calm, his voice even and, indeed, cold. He was like a bystander, with no vital interest in the subject he talked about.
Knowing, as I did, that his interest was vital, I came to the conclusion that he was a man of unusual self-control, and an ability to mask his real feelings completely. Feeling that nothing more could be learned at present, I left the group in the library discussing the loss of the will, and went down to the district attorney’s office.
He was, of course, surprised at my news, and agreed with me that it gave us new fields for conjecture.
“Now, we see,” he said eagerly, “that the motive for the murder was the theft of the will.”
“Not necessarily,” I replied. “Mr. Crawford may have destroyed the will before he met his death.”
“But that would leave no motive. No, the will supplies the motive. Now, you see, this frees Miss Lloyd from suspicion. She would have no reason to kill her uncle and then destroy or suppress a will in her own favor.”
“That reasoning also frees Mr. Hall from suspicion,” said I, reverting to my former theories.
“Yes, it does. We must look for the one who has benefited by the removal of the will. That, of course, would be the brother, Mr. Philip Crawford.”
I looked at the attorney a moment, and then burst into laughter.
“My dear Mr. Goodrich,” I said, “don’t be absurd! A man would hardly shoot his own brother, but aside from that, why should Philip Crawford kill Joseph just at the moment he is about to make a new will in Philip’s favor? Either the destruction of the old will or the drawing of the new would result in Philip’s falling heir to the fortune. So he would hardly precipitate matters by a criminal act. And, too, if he had been keen about the money, he could have urged his brother to disinherit Florence Lloyd, and Joseph would have willingly done so. He was on the very point of doing so, any way.”