"Should it not be?" asked Mme. Storey.
"No, madam, by Mrs. Starr's express orders this window was always to be kept locked. It afforded a direct entrance to her rooms, you see."
"Ah," said Mme. Storey. "Let's look at it. The sill is three feet from the floor. An active woman would have no particular difficulty...Unfortunately there's no dust on the sill..."
"You think it was a woman, then?" said Mr. Anders.
"My opinion inclines that way."
"What further grounds have you...?"
"Well, it's the result of a rather lengthy course of reasoning," said Mme. Storey with a smile. "I'll tell you as we go along. Let's look out of the window first."
She suited the action to the word, and little Mr. Anders stuck his head out alongside her.
"Someone has gone out this way with fear at his heels," she said quietly. "Observe how the chrysanthemum plants are clumsily broken and crushed."
"I see! I see!" said Mr. Anders, like a child.
Mme. Storey withdrew her head. "Are you willing to come a little further with me?" she asked with a smile.
He spread out his hands in token of surrender.
"Then let Pascoe show us how we can reach this spot from the outside. He can then carry back word that we may be gone some time."
We left the butler at the service entrance to the castle. A moment later we were standing outside the open window above the chrysanthemum bed. Bending down, Mme. Storey carefully separated the broken plants, revealing a fairly perfect footprint in the loose mould.
Seeing it, the depressed Mr. Anders brightened up maliciously. "But that is a very large foot," he pointed out. "A man's, surely, and a big man's."
"So it would appear," said Mme. Storey cheerfully. "However, we shall see...The next question to decide is which way she—he went. Only two steps to the service driveway, you see. Only one way to turn in the drive, because it ends yonder at service door. Walking along the driveway this person would not be especially conspicuous, but I feel sure that with fear at his heels he—she would take to cover as quickly as possible. To run across the lawn would have been fatal; but observe, two hundred yards ahead of us, how a sort of promontory of the shrubbery almost touches the road. That would be the most likely place."
"It begins with the revolver we found under the desk," said Mme. Storey. "You observed, of course, that this revolver had a fresh, new look, though it is of a style which has long been discontinued. A close examination of the hammer, the chambers and the barrel suggested to me that it had never been shot off until today. The working parts have been kept free of rust by grease, but the shells are slightly rusted to the chambers. Now it is scarcely possible that a gun could pass from owner to owner and never be shot off, never even tested, so I assume that this pistol has been continuously in the possession of the person who first purchased it.
"It has been kept closely wrapped in a rag, as you could see from the particles of cotton still adhering to it. Now a revolver kept on hand for ordinary emergencies is never kept wrapped up that way—takes too long to get it out. I assume therefore—kept all these years without ever having been discharged—that it was purchased for a particular purpose, in short, the purpose for which it was used today."
"But why by a woman?"
"I'm coming to that now. The next question I had to answer was: How many years? That was easy. I had my secretary telephone to the manufacturers to find out about when the weapon bearing such a number had originally been sold. The answer was 1908. Fifteen years ago. The year of the marriage of Bessie Jewett and Norbert Starr. Now if anybody had a grudge against Bessie Jewett Starr that dated from her wedding, it would naturally be another woman, wouldn't it? a jealous woman? And anyway who but a woman would nourish a grudge for fifteen long years? Who but a foolish woman would undertake to use a revolver that had not been cleaned nor tested in so many years? It's a wonder she didn't blow her own hand to pieces."
"You bewilder me," murmured Mr. Anders.
"Theorising! Theorising!" said Mme. Storey cheerfully. "I never insist on my deductions until they are bolstered up by solid facts."
"But that was certainly a man's footprint," insisted Mr. Anders.
Mme. Storey merely smiled. The twinkle in her eye caused me to suspect that she was keeping her most important evidence to herself.
When we reached the point in the drive that was nearest the shrubbery, Mme. Storey bade us wait there so as not to mess up the earth with our tracks. Meanwhile, like a graceful hound she beat back and forth among the bushes. She presently gave tongue. As we joined her she pointed out a series of scarcely discernible depressions in the mould.
I would never have been able to follow them unaided, and I'm very sure Anders wouldn't—he was like a lap dog lost in the woods; but Mme. Storey with her marvellous eyesight led us on unhesitatingly. In the woods she was a dryad just as naturally as in town she was the fine lady. Through woods-mould, grass and last year's dead leaves she followed the trail. The shrubbery was backed by a thickly springing young woods of deciduous trees; oak, beech and ash; a natural wilderness with little open glades where rabbits scuttled and quail whirred up.
Presently Mme. Storey confessed that she had lost the track. However, she kept on, averring that it didn't matter, since she now had the woman's general direction. The woman must know what she was about. She would be heading for the shortest way out of the woods.
Mr. Anders hazarded the information that we could not be far now from the Greenwall road which bounded the rear of the Bolingbroke place.
Sure enough, we soon heard the sound of passing motors. A thickly planted border in the English style screened us from the road. Bidding us stand still again, Mme. Storey searched up and down until she found the place where the woman had forced a way through. Even I could see the marks of her passage, but Mme. Storey was not content; she was still searching for something. Presently she made a pounce under a laurel bush, and held up a pair of large, new men's rubbers.
"I was sure she'd cast these before venturing out on the high road," she said.
Mr. Anders gave up. He cringed before Mme. Storey now. He stuffed the rubbers, one in each pocket.
Forcing our way through the thicket, we were still cut off from the highway by a barbed-wire fence. Before attempting to pass it, Mme. Storey looked keenly along the wire.
"It is difficult for a woman to get through barbed wire without leaving a souvenir," she remarked.
From one of the barbs she picked a thread. "What do you make of it?" she asked Anders, handing it over.
"A black thread," he said, blinking owlishly.
"But what sort of thread?"
"A cotton thread."
She shook her head, and broke off a piece. "A strong fine woolen thread with a crinkle in it. Crêpe. Our friend hung a crêpe veil from her bonnet so that she could hide her face, if need be. It is of a piece with the rest of her actions."
We assisted each other through the fence by holding the wires apart. On the hard macadam road the tracks were swallowed up. We could not even tell which way they turned in the road.
"No matter," said Mme. Storey. "It ought not to be difficult to figure which direction she took." She pointed to the left. "This would take us back to Upper Bellaire, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, madam," said Anders. "It runs into the main road to Bolingbroke Castle about a quarter of a mile from here."
"Then she wouldn't have gone that way," said my mistress, turning in the other direction.
We proceeded along the country road three abreast. The passing motorists looked at us curiously. And in truth we were an oddly assorted trio: Anders in his little cutaway coat and patent leather oxfords; the tall, elegant Mme. Storey in a champagne-coloured frock and a little red hat, and red-haired me with my note-book.
"The three musketeers!" murmured Mme. Storey.
We passed a few sporadic commuters' bungalows, and Mme. Storey sent Mr. Anders in to each one to inquire if a woman wearing a cr
êpe veil had been seen passing about noon. It was rather a trial to the county prosecutor's dignity to apply at the doors. In each case the answer was in the negative, and he began to pluck up a little spirit again.
"The person we are following may have had a car waiting for her," he ventured. "If so, we are certainly wasting our time."
"It is possible," said Mme. Storey calmly. "Anything is possible. On the other hand, this crime bears all the ear-marks of the single-handed crime. A crime long brooded upon in solitude and secrecy. I am as sure as one may be, that she came alone and departed alone...One begins to be able to reconstruct her character. A strange mixture of naïveté and cunning. She took chances, you observe, that would have appalled a prudent person. That was how she was able to get away with it."
After having gone say three quarters of a mile, we came to a single-track railway. There was a small solitary station where the line crossed the highway. The sign upon it read: "Greenwall."
"The Longwood Lake road," said Mr. Anders.
"That station, I take it, was our friend's objective," said Mme. Storey. "She had evidently familiarised herself with the neighbourhood, and with the timetables, too, no doubt. Let us inquire." She looked at her watch. "It has taken us twenty-eight minutes to make it. She would do it quicker. It was eleven twenty-six when Mr. Starr called us up today. Let us assume that the shot was fired five minutes before that."
The station-agent was one of those typical, lean jacks-of-all-trades that one associates with country stations; one who is prepared to perform any office for a traveller from sending a telegram to trundling a trunk.
"What is the first train that stops here after eleven-forty A.M.?" asked Mme. Storey.
The man hesitated, all agog with inquisitiveness. He greatly desired to obtain information before giving away any.
"Anders, County Prosecutor," spoke up our escort brusquely. "Answer the question, please."
The agent quickly changed his attitude. "Eleven fifty-one, madam," he said.
"Bound in which direction?"
"To New York."
"Did a woman wearing a black veil get on here?"
"No, ma'am. Nobody got on here."
Anders rubbed his upper lip, and tried not to look too pleased.
Mme. Storey was undisturbed. She looked around, fixing the lay of the land in her mind. "The conductor of that train?" she asked, "when will he pass through again?"
"He comes out on the four-eighteen," was the reply. "Twenty minutes from now."
"We'll wait," said Mme. Storey.
The three of us sat down on a baggage truck. Mme. Storey lit a cigarette. Mr. Anders was comically divided in his mind between masculine admiration, and professional jealousy. They discussed the novels of Emile Gaboriau. It appeared that Mr. Anders took him quite seriously.
"A better story-teller than a detective, I should say," remarked Mme. Storey.
When the antique local train with its leaking engine drew in, a single passenger alighted and scurried away. The conductor was somewhat astonished to be accosted as he was about to wave his arm to proceed. Anders got off his formula:
"Anders, County Prosecutor."
"When you stopped here at eleven fifty-one did you pick up a woman passenger?" asked Mme. Storey.
"Why, yes, ma'am," was the unhesitating reply. "Big woman, all wrapped up in black like she'd been to a funeral."
Mr. Anders's face was a study. To do him credit, he never after that offered to set himself up against my mistress's opinion.
The station-agent was standing close, of course, with his ears stretched. "I never seen her," he put in.
"She paid her fare on the train," said the conductor.
"She would have waited behind the section hand's shanty across the track until the train pulled in," said Mme. Storey. "And got on from that side."
"Yes, ma'am," said the conductor. "Now you speak of it, she got on on the wrong side."
"Where did she go?"
"New York City, ma'am."
"You did not see her face, I suppose."
"No, ma'am, she kep' it covered."
"Can you add anything to your description?"
"Not much, ma'am. Large, stout woman dressed in plain black. Not young, I should say. But real spry; energetic in her movements; determined-like."
"A very good description. That's all; thank you."
The train went on.
Mr. Anders was left in some little excitement. "Now we have a definite clue!" he cried. "We know where we are. We have something positive to go on. I will follow to New York by the next train."
Mme. Storey shrugged. "Just as you like," she said dryly. "Won't you find it rather difficult to trace a woman in a crêpe veil through the streets of New York?...Besides, she'll take it off at the first opportunity."
His face fell absurdly. "What are you going to do?" he asked.
"I'm going back to Bolingbroke Castle," said Mme. Storey. "I must discover who the woman was before I can find her. I want to ask Norbert Starr a question or two."
Mr. Anders suddenly struck his fist into his palm. "Of course!" he cried. "This woman was a creature of Starr's! He hired a woman, thinking that the trail would be less likely to lead back to him through her. I see it all now!"
"I don't," said Mme. Storey with an enigmatic smile.
VIII
From the station we telephoned to Bolingbroke Castle to ask that a car be sent, and in ten minutes or so we were back there. Though we had been gone an hour, the persons in the round room seemed scarcely to have moved. The body had been taken away. No one else had been admitted to the room, but in the corridors of the castle I met many new faces. Goodness knows who they were or what right they had to be there. Not the least dreadful thing connected with having a tragedy in the house is that it robs you of your privacy.
In the round room everybody was furtively watching Mr. Starr and Miss Lansdowne, who supported the ordeal as best they could. They were sitting beside one of the windows with their backs partly turned towards the others. They occasionally exchanged a whispered word, and continually sought to keep up each other's courage with confident and smiling glances.
But oh! with what a poignant anxiety Norbert Starr's eyes flew to Mme. Storey's face when she entered.
"Be of good heart!" my mistress said instantly. "We have established the fact that there was a third person in this room."
A long breath of relief escaped Mr. Starr. His eyes turned to the girl. Her clear glance answered back: "I knew they would clear you!" But Mr. Anders frowned; on general principles he disapproved of having the spirits of the accused bolstered up.
With half a glance at Miss Lansdowne, Mme. Storey said to Anders, aside: "I think I may get more out of Mr. Starr, if I question him without anybody being present except yourself, of course, and my secretary."
Anders nodded. "Suppose I have him brought to you in the end room on the corridor, the boudoir. Kelliger can wait outside the door, in case we need him."
"Oh, I shouldn't say Mr. Starr was dangerous," Mme. Storey said with a smile. "...Let a few minutes elapse. I don't want him to attach too much importance to the matter." To me she murmured: "Bring the big scrap-book to the boudoir, Bella."
Mr. Anders followed us to the boudoir. He had become my mistress's little shadow. He looked to her for his impetus. In that giddy pink room, Mme. Storey sank into one of the corpulent arm-chairs, crossed her legs comfortably, lit a cigarette, and opened the big scrap-book on her knee. For a few moments she studied it in silence, holding her head on one side to keep the smoke out of her eyes. Mr. Anders, lost in another pink chair across the fireplace, tried to look as much at his ease as she did, and respectfully waited for the oracle to give some sign.
In due course Norbert Starr was escorted to the door of the room. He was allowed to enter alone. Mme. Storey closed the book, and glanced at me. I put it on a table.
"Sit down," said Mme. Storey with a friendly smile. "This is not going to be an inquisition.
We want your help. I think I may say—may I not, Mr. Anders?—that you need no longer consider yourself under suspicion."
"Just as you say, Mme. Storey," Anders said very reluctantly.
Mr. Starr sat down rather gingerly in another of the pink chairs between Mme. Storey and Anders.
"Have a cigarette?" asked my mistress.
He took it thankfully, and, lighting up, puffed at the weed deeply. He needed it.
"I want to ask you a question or two in reference to your marriage," said Mme. Storey.
"Anything you like," he murmured.
"Where were you married?"
"In the Little Church Around the Corner."
"Can you name the principal persons present?"
"There was nobody present but our two witnesses and some newspaper reporters."
"Who were your witnesses?"
"Mrs. Jewett, and Miss Jewett's manager, a man called Fazenda."
"Rather a hasty marriage, eh?"
"Decidedly," he said bitterly. "We made up our minds one night after the theatre, and were married next morning."
"You suggested in my office the other day—if you will forgive me for reminding you of it, that you were rather a passive agent..."
"Well, my wife was many years older than I," he said with a shrug.
"Didn't you want to marry her?" Mme. Storey asked softly.
"I thought I did," he said with a painful smile. "I was dazzled by her prominence and notoriety. I thought, God help me! that it would make me famous!"
"Now for a delicate question," said Mme. Storey. "Were you interested in any other lady at the time?"
He started to answer thoughtlessly—then pulled himself up with a startled glance at Mme. Storey. "Why...why, no," he stammered.
Just a startled flicker of his eyes, but it meant everything. I realised that Mme. Storey had asked the significant question, and that we were on the brink of a disclosure. Ah! I knew her so well! That was the way she did it. Seemed at the point of falling asleep just when she touched off the powder magazine.
"Ah!" she said with a disappointed inflexion. "...Are you sure?" she persisted softly.
"For your own sake you'd better answer frankly!" barked Mr. Anders.
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