Afternoon Tea Mysteries, Volume Two: A Collection of Cozy Mysteries (Four thrilling novels in one volume!)

by Marion Bryce

  “He need not have come in a train,” said Florence slowly, as if simply voicing her thoughts.

  “Don’t attempt to solve the mystery, Florence,” said Mr. Porter in his decided way. “Leave that for those who make it their business. Mr. Burroughs, I am sure, will do all he can, and it is not for you to trouble your already sad heart with these anxieties. Give it up, my girl, for it means only useless exertion on your part.”

  “And on my part too, I fear, Mr. Porter,” I said. “Without wishing to shirk my duty, I can’t help feeling I’m up against a problem that to me is insoluble. It is my desire, since the case is baffling, to call in talent of a higher order. Fleming Stone, for instance.”

  Mr. Porter gave me a sudden glance, and it was a glance I could not understand. For an instant it seemed to me that he showed fear, and this thought was instantly followed by the impression that he feared for Florence. And then I chid myself for my foolish heart that made every thought that entered my brain lead to Florence Lloyd. With my mind in this commotion I scarcely heard Mr. Porter’s words.

  “No, no,” he was saying, “we need no other or cleverer detective than you, Mr. Burroughs. If, as Florence says, the murderer was clever enough to come between those two hours, and go away again, leaving no sign, he is probably clever enough so to conceal his coming and going that he may not be traced.”

  “But, Mr. Porter,” I observed, “they say murder will out.”

  Again that strange look came into his eyes. Surely it was an expression of fear. But he only said, “Then you’re the man to bring that result about, Mr. Burroughs. I have great confidence in your powers as a detective.”

  He took his leave, and I was not sorry, for I wanted an opportunity to see Florence alone.

  “I am so sorry,” she said, and for the first time I saw tears in her dear, beautiful eyes, “to hear that about Uncle Philip. But Mr. Porter was right, he was not himself, or he never could have done it.”

  “It was an awful thing for him to find his brother as he did, and go away and leave him so.”

  “Awful, indeed! But the Crawfords have always been strange in their ways. I have never seen one of them show emotion or sentiment upon any occasion.”

  “Now you are again an heiress,” I said, suddenly realizing the fact.

  “Yes,” she said, but her tone indicated that her fortune brought in its train many perplexing troubles and many grave questions.

  “Forgive me,” I began, “if I am unwarrantably intrusive, but I must say this. Affairs are so changed now, that new dangers and troubles may arise for you. If I can help you in any way, will you let me do so? Will you confide in me and trust me, and will you remember that in so doing you are not putting yourself under the slightest obligation?”

  She looked at me very earnestly for a moment, and then without replying directly to my questions, she said in a low tone, “You are the very best friend I have ever had.”

  “ Florence!” I cried; but even as she had spoken, she had gone softly out of the room, and with a quiet joy in my heart, I went away.

  That afternoon I was summoned to Mr. Philip Crawford’s house to be present at the informal court of inquiry which was to interrogate Gregory Hall.

  Hall was summoned by telephone, and not long after he arrived. He was cool and collected, as usual, and I wondered if even his arrest would disturb his calm.

  “We are pursuing the investigation of Mr. Joseph Crawford’s death, Mr. Hall,” the district attorney began, “and we wish, in the course of our inquiries, to ask some questions of you.”

  “Certainly, sir,” said Gregory Hall, with an air of polite indifference.

  “And I may as well tell you at the outset,” went on Mr. Goodrich, a little irritated at the young man’s attitude, “that you, Mr. Hall, are under suspicion.”

  “Yes?” said Hall interrogatively. “But I was not here that night.”

  “That’s just the point, sir. You say you were not here, but you refuse to say where you were. Now, wherever you may have been that night, a frank admission of it will do you less harm than this incriminating concealment of the truth.”

  “In that case,” said Hall easily, “I suppose I may as well tell you. But first, since you practically accuse me, may I ask if any new developments have been brought to light?”

  “One has,” said Mr. Goodrich. “The missing will has been found.”

  “What?” cried Hall, unable to conceal his satisfaction at this information.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Goodrich coldly, disgusted at the plainly apparent mercenary spirit of the man; “yes, the will of Mr. Joseph Crawford, which bequeaths the bulk of his estate to Miss Lloyd, is safe in Mr. Randolph’s possession. But that fact in no way affects your connection with the case, or our desire to learn where you were on Tuesday night.”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Goodrich; I didn’t hear all that you said.”

  Bluffing again, thought I; and, truly, it seemed to me rather a clever way to gain time for consideration, and yet let his answers appear spontaneous.

  The district attorney repeated his question, and now Gregory Hall answered deliberately,

  “I still refuse to tell you where I was. It in no way affects the case; it is a private matter of my own. I was in New York City from the time I left West Sedgwick at six o’clock on Monday, until I returned the next morning. Further than that I will give no account of my doings.”

  “Then we must assume you were engaged in some occupation of which you are ashamed to tell.”

  Hall shrugged his shoulders. “You may assume what you choose,” he said. “I was not here, I had no hand in Mr. Crawford’s death, and knew nothing of it until my return next day.”

  “You knew Mr. Crawford kept a revolver in his desk. You must know it is not there now.”

  Hall looked troubled.

  “I know nothing about that revolver,” he said. “I saw it the day Mr. Philip Crawford brought it there, but I have never seen it since.”

  This sounded honest enough, but if he were the criminal, he would, of course, make these same avowals.

  “Well, Mr. Hall,” said the district attorney, with an air of finality, “we suspect you. We hold that you had motive, opportunity, and means for this crime. Therefore, unless you can prove an alibi for Tuesday night, and bring witnesses to grove where you, were, we must arrest you, on suspicion, for the murder of Joseph Crawford.”

  Gregory Hall deliberated silently for a few moments, then he said:

  “I am innocent. But I persist in my refusal to allow intrusion on my private and personal affairs. Arrest me if you will, but you will yet learn your mistake.”

  I can never explain it, even to myself, but something in the man’s tone and manner convinced me, even against my own will, that he spoke the truth.

  XX. FLEMING STONE

  The news of Gregory Hall’s arrest flew through the town like wildfire.

  That evening I went to call on Florence Lloyd, though I had little hope that she would see me.

  To my surprise, however, she welcomed me almost eagerly, and, though I knew she wanted to see me only for what legal help I might give her, I was glad even of this.

  And yet her manner was far from impersonal. Indeed, she showed a slight embarrassment in my presence, which, if I had dared, I should have been glad to think meant a growing interest in our friendship.

  “You have heard all?” I asked, knowing from her manner that she had.

  “Yes,” she replied; “Mr. Hall was here for dinner, and then—then he went away to—”

  “To prison,” I finished quietly. “ Florence, I cannot think he is the murderer of your uncle.”

  If she noticed this, my first use of her Christian name, she offered no remonstrance, and I went on,

  “To be sure, they have proved that he had motive, means, opportunity, and all that, but it is only indefinite evidence. If he would but tell where he was on Tuesday night, he could so easily free himself. Why will he not tell?”

>   “I don’t know,” she said, looking thoughtful. “But I cannot think he was here, either. When he said good-by to me to-night, he did not seem at all apprehensive. He only said he was arrested wrongfully, and that he would soon be set free again. You know his way of taking everything casually.”

  “Yes, I do. And now that you are your uncle’s heiress, I suppose he no longer wishes to break the engagement between you and him.”

  I said this bitterly, for I loathed the nature that could thus turn about in accordance with the wheel of fortune.

  To my surprise, she too spoke bitterly.

  “Yes,” she said; “he insists now that we are engaged, and that he never really wanted to break it. He has shown me positively that it is my money that attracts him, and if it were not that I don’t want to seem to desert him now, when he is in trouble—”

  She paused, and my heart beat rapidly. Could it be that at last she saw Gregory Hall as he really was, and that his mercenary spirit had killed her love for him? At least, she had intimated this, and, forcing myself to be content with that for the present, I said:

  “Would you, then, if you could, get him out of this trouble?”

  “Gladly. I do not think he killed Uncle Joseph, but I’m sure I do not know who did. Do you?”

  “I haven’t the least idea,” I answered honestly, for there, in Florence Lloyd’s presence, gazing into the depths of her clear eyes, my last, faint suspicion of her wrong-doing faded away. “And it is this total lack of suspicion that makes the case so simple, and therefore so difficult. A more complicated case offers some points on which to build a theory. I do not blame Mr. Goodrich for suspecting Mr. Hall, for there seems to be no one else to suspect.”

  Just then Mr. Lemuel Porter dropped in for an evening call. Of course, we talked over the events of the day, and Mr. Porter was almost vehement in his denunciation of the sudden move of the district attorney.

  “It’s absurd,” he said, “utterly absurd. Gregory Hall never did the thing. I’ve known Hall for years, and he isn’t that sort of a man. I believe Philip Crawford’s story, of course, but the murderer, who came into the office after Florence’s visit to her uncle, and before Philip arrived, was some stranger from out of town—some man whom none of us know; who had some grievance against Joseph, and who deliberately came and went during that midnight hour.”

  I agreed with Mr. Porter. I had thought all along it was some one unknown to the Sedgwick people, but some one well known to Joseph Crawford. For, had it been an ordinary burglar, the victim would at least have raised a protecting hand.

  “Of course Hall will be set free at once,” continued Mr. Porter, “but to arrest him was a foolish thing to do.”

  “Still, he ought to prove his alibi,” I said.

  “Very well, then; make him prove it. Give him the third degree, if necessary, and find out where he was on Tuesday night.”

  “I doubt if they could get it out of him,” I observed, “if he continues determined not to tell.”

  “Then he deserves his fate,” said Mr. Porter, a little petulantly. “He can free himself by a word. If he refuses to do so it’s his own business.”

  “But I’d like to help him,” said Florence, almost timidly. “Is there no way I can do so, Mr. Burroughs?”

  “Indeed there is,” I said. “You are a rich woman now; use some of your wealth to employ the services of Fleming Stone, and I can assure you the truth will be discovered.”

  “Indeed I will,” said Florence. “Please send for him at once.”

  “Nonsense!” said Mr. Porter. “It isn’t necessary at all. Mr. Burroughs here, and young Parmalee, are all the detectives we need. Get Hall to free himself, as he can easily do, and then set to work in earnest to run down the real villain.”

  “No, Mr. Porter,” said Florence, with firmness; “Gregory will not tell his secret, whatever it is. I know his stubborn nature. He’ll stay in prison until he’s freed, as he is sure he will be, but he won’t tell what he has determined not to divulge. No, I am glad I can do something definite at last toward avenging Uncle Joseph’s death. Please send for Mr. Stone, Mr. Burroughs, and I will gladly pay his fees and expenses.” Mr. Porter expostulated further, but to no avail. Florence insisted on sending for the great detective.

  So I sent for him.

  He came two days later, and in the interval nothing further had been learned from Gregory Hall. The man was an enigma to me. He was calm and impassive as ever. Courteous, though never cordial, and apparently without the least apprehension of ever being convicted for the crime which had caused his arrest.

  Indeed, he acted just as an innocent man would act; innocent of the murder, that is, but resolved to conceal his whereabouts of Tuesday night, whatever that resolve might imply.

  To me, it did not imply crime. Something he wished to conceal, certainly; but I could not think a criminal would act so. A criminal is usually ready with an alibi, whether it can be proved or not.

  When Fleming Stone arrived I met him at the station and took him at once to the inn, where I had engaged rooms for him.

  We first had a long conversation alone, in which I told him, everything I knew concerning the murder.

  “When did it happen?” he asked, for, though he had read some of the newspaper accounts, the date had escaped him.

  I told him, and added, “Why, I was called here just after I left you at the Metropolis Hotel that morning. Don’t you remember, you deduced a lot of information from a pair of shoes which were waiting to be cleaned?”

  “Yes, I remember,” said Stone, smiling a little at the recollection.

  “And I tried to make similar deductions from the gold bag and the newspaper, but I couldn’t do it. I bungled matters every time. My deductions are mostly from the witnesses’ looks or tones when giving evidence.”

  “On the stand?”

  “Not necessarily on the stand. I’ve learned much from talking to the principals informally.”

  “And where do your suspicions point?”

  “Nowhere. I’ve suspected Florence Lloyd and Gregory Hall, in turn, and in collusion; but now I suspect neither of them.”

  “Why not Hall?”

  “His manner is too frank and unconcerned.”

  “A good bluff for a criminal to use.”

  “Then he won’t tell where he was that night.”

  “If he is the murderer, he can’t tell. A false alibi is so easily riddled. It’s rather clever to keep doggedly silent; but what does he say is his reason?”

  “He won’t give any reason. He has determined to keep up that calm, indifferent pose, and though it is aggravating, I must admit it serves his purpose well.”

  “How did they find him the morning after the murder?”

  “Let me see; I believe the coroner said he telephoned first to Hall’s club. But the steward said Hall didn’t stay there, as there was no vacant room, and that he had stayed all night at a hotel.”

  “What hotel?”

  “I don’t know. The coroner asked the steward, but he didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t he find out from Hall, afterward?”

  “I don’t know, Stone; perhaps the coroner asked him, but if he did, I doubt if Hall told. It didn’t seem to me important.”

  “Burroughs, my son, you should have learned every detail of Hall’s doings that night.”

  “But if he were not in West Sedgwick, what difference could it possibly make where he was?”

  “One never knows what difference anything will make until the difference is made. That’s oracular, but it means more than it sounds. However, go on.”

  I went on, and I even told him what Florence had told me concerning the possibility of Hall’s interest in another woman.

  “At last we are getting to it,” said Stone; “why in the name of all good detectives, didn’t you hunt up that other woman?”

  “But she is perhaps only a figment of Miss Lloyd’s brain.”

  “Figments of the brains of engag
ed young ladies are apt to have a solid foundation of flesh and blood. I think much could be learned concerning Mr. Hall’s straying fancy. But tell me again about his attitude toward Miss Lloyd, in the successive developments of the will question.”

  Fleming Stone was deeply interested as I rehearsed how, when Florence was supposed to be penniless, he wished to break the engagement. When Philip Crawford offered to provide for her, Mr. Hall was uncertain; but when the will was found, and Florence was known to inherit all her uncle’s property, then Gregory Hall not only held her to the engagement, but said he had never wished to break it.

  “H’m,” said Stone. “Pretty clear that the young man is a fortune-hunter.”

  “He is,” I agreed. “I felt sure of that from the first.”

  “And he is now under arrest, calmly waiting for some one to prove his innocence, so he can marry the heiress.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” I said. “But I don’t think Florence is quite as much in love with him as she was. She seems to have realized his mercenary spirit.”

  Perhaps an undue interest in my voice or manner disclosed to this astute man the state of my own affections, for he gave me a quizzical glance, and said, “O-ho! sits the wind in that quarter?”

  “Yes,” I said, determined to be frank with him. “It does. I want you, to free Gregory Hall, if he’s innocent. Then if, for any reason, Miss Lloyd sees fit to dismiss him, I shall most certainly try to win her affections. As I came to this determination when she was supposed to be penniless, I can scarcely be accused of fortune-hunting myself.”

  “Indeed, you can’t, old chap. You’re not that sort. Well, let’s go to see your district attorney and his precious prisoner, and see what’s to be done.”

  We went to the district attorney’s office, and, later, accompanied by him and by Mr. Randolph, we visited Gregory Hall.

  As I had expected, Mr. Hall wore the same unperturbed manner he always showed, and when Fleming Stone was introduced, Hall greeted him coldly, with absolutely no show of interest in the man or his work.