The Mystery of the Sycamore

by Carolyn Wells

  CHAPTER VIII CONFESSION

  Before Sam Appleby left the next morning, he confided to Keefe that hehad little if any faith in the detective prowess of the two meninvestigating the case.

  “When I come back,” he said, “I may bring a real detective, and—I maynot. I want to think this thing over first—and, though I may be a queerDick, I’m not sure I want the slayer of my father found.”

  “I see,” and Keefe nodded his head understandingly.

  But Jeffrey Allen demurred. “You say that, Mr. Appleby, because you thinkone of the Wheeler family is the guilty party. But I know better. I knowthem so well——”

  “Not as well as I do,” interrupted Appleby, “and neither do you know allthe points of the feud that has festered for so many years. If you’lltake my advice, Mr. Allen, you’ll delay action until my return, atleast.”

  “The detectives won’t do that,” objected Jeffrey.

  “The detectives will run round in circles and get nowhere,” scoffedAppleby. “I shall be back as soon as possible, and I don’t mind tellingyou now that there will be no election campaign for me.”

  “What!” exclaimed Curtis Keefe. “You’re out of the running?”

  “Positively! I may take it up again some other year, but this campaignwill not include my name.”

  “My gracious!” exclaimed Genevieve, who knew a great deal about currentpolitics. “Who’ll take your place?”

  “A dark horse, likely,” returned Appleby, speaking in an absorbed,preoccupied manner, as if caring little who fell heir to his candidacy.

  “I don’t agree with you, Mr. Appleby,” spoke up Jeff Allen, “as to theinefficiency of the two men on this case. Seems to me they’re doing allthey can, and I can’t help thinking they may get at the truth.”

  “All right, if they get at the truth, but it’s my opinion that the truthof this matter is not going to be so easily discovered, and those twobunglers may do a great deal of harm. Good-bye, Maida, keep up a goodheart, my girl.”

  The group on the veranda said good-bye to Sam Appleby, and he turned backas he stepped into the car to say:

  “I’ll be back as soon as the funeral is over, and until then, be carefulwhat you say—all of you.”

  He looked seriously at Maida, but his glance turned toward the den whereMr. Wheeler sat in solitude.

  “I heard him,” stormed Burdon, as the car drove away, and the detectivecame around the corner of the veranda. “I heard what he said about me andHallen. Well, we’ll show him! Of course, the reason he talks like that——”

  “Don’t tell us the reason just now,” interrupted Keefe. “We men will havea little session of our own, without the ladies present. There’s no callfor their participation in our talk.”

  “That’s right,” said Allen. “Maida, you and Miss Lane run away, and we’llgo to the den for a chat.”

  “No, not there,” objected Burdon. “Come over and sit under the bigsycamore.”

  And so, beneath the historic tree, the three men sat down for a serioustalk. Hallen soon joined them, but he said little.

  “I’m leaving myself, soon after noon,” said Keefe. “I’ll be back in a dayor two, but there are matters of importance connected with Mr. Appleby’sestate that must be looked after.”

  “I should think there must be!” exclaimed Burdon. “I don’t see how youcan leave to come back very soon.”

  Keefe reddened slightly, for the real reason for his intended return wascentred in Maida Wheeler’s charm, to which he had incontinentlysuccumbed. He knew Allen was her suitor, but his nature was such that hebelieved in his own powers of persuasion to induce the girl to transferher affections to his more desirable self.

  But he only looked thoughtfully at Burdon and said: “There are mattershere, also, that require attention in Mr. Appleby’s interests.”

  “Well,” Burdon went on, “as to the murder, there’s no doubt that it wasthe work of one of the three Wheelers. Nobody else had any reason to wishold Appleby out of the world.”

  “You forget me,” said Allen, in a tense voice. “My interests are one withthe Wheelers. If they had such a motive as you ascribe to them—I had thesame.”

  “Don’t waste time in such talk,” said Curt Keefe. “I saw you, Allen, atthe fire during the whole time that covered the opportunity for themurder.”

  “Of course,” agreed Burdon, “I’ve looked into all that. And so, as I say,it must have been one member of the Wheeler family, for there’s no oneelse to suspect.”

  “Including Mrs. Wheeler,” quietly put in Hallen.

  “How absurd!” flared out Allen. “It’s bad enough to suspect the othertwo, but to think of Mrs. Wheeler is ridiculous!”

  “Not at all,” said Burdon, “she had the same motive—she hadopportunity——”

  “How do you know?” asked Keefe.

  “She ran down from her room at that very moment,” stated Burdon. “I havethe testimony of one of the upstairs maids, and, also, I believe MissWheeler saw her mother in the den.”

  “Look here,” said Hallen, in his slow, drawling tones, “let’s reconstructthe situation. You two men were at the fire—that much is certain—so youcan’t be suspected. But all three of the Wheelers had absoluteopportunity, and they had motive. Now, as I look at it—one of those threewas the criminal, and the other two saw the deed. Wherefore, the twoonlookers will do all they can to shield the murderer.”

  Keefe stared at him. “You really believe that!” he said.

  “Sure I do! Nobody else had either motive or opportunity. I don’t for oneminute believe in an outsider. Who could happen along at that particularmoment, get away with the shooting, and then get away himself?”

  “Why, it could have been done,” mused Keefe, and Allen broke in eagerly:

  “Of course it could! There’s nothing to prove it impossible.”

  “You two say that, because you want it to be that way,” said Burdon,smiling at the two young men. “That’s all right—you’re both friends ofthe family, and can’t bear to suspect any one of them. But facts remain.Now, let’s see which of the three it most likely was.”

  “The old man,” declared Hallen, promptly.

  “Nonsense!” cried Allen. “Mr. Wheeler is incapable of a deed like that!Why, I’ve known him for years——”

  “Don’t talk about incapable of anything!” said Burdon. “Most murderersare people whom their friends consider ‘incapable of such a deed.’ A manwho is generally adjudged ‘capable’ of it is not found in politesociety.”

  “Where’s the weapon,” asked Keefe, abruptly, “if Mr. Wheeler did it?”

  “Where’s the weapon, whoever did it?” countered Burdon. “The weaponhasn’t been found, though I’ve hunted hard. But that helps to prove itone of the family, for they would know where to hide a revolversecurely.”

  “If it was Mr. Wheeler, he’d have to hide it in the den,” said Allen. “Henever goes over to the other side of the house, you know.”

  “It isn’t in the den,” Hallen spoke positively; “I hunted that myself.”

  “You seem sure of your statement,” said Keefe. “Couldn’t you haveoverlooked it?”

  “Positively not.”

  “No, he couldn’t,” concurred Burdon. “Hallen’s a wonderful hunter. Ifthat revolver had been hidden in the den, he’d have found it. That’s whyI think it was Mrs. Wheeler, and she took it back to her own rooms.”

  “Oh, not Mrs. Wheeler!” groaned Jeff Allen. “That dear, sweet womancouldn’t——”

  “Incapable of murder, I s’pose!” ironically said Burdon. “Let me tellyou, sir, many a time a dear, sweet woman has done extraordinary thingsfor the sake of her husband or children.”

  “But what motive would Mrs. Wheeler have?”

  “The same as the others. Appleby was a thorn in their flesh, an enemy ofmany years’ standing. And I’ve heard hints of another reason for thefamily’s hating him, besides that
conditional pardon business. But nomatter about that now. What I want is evidence against somebody—againstone of three suspects. Until I get some definite evidence I can’t tellwhich of the three is most likely the one.”

  “Seems to me the fact that Mrs. Wheeler ran downstairs and back again isenough to indicate some pretty close questioning of her,” suggestedHallen.

  “Oh, please,” begged Allen, “she’s _so_ upset and distracted——”

  “Of course she is. But that’s the reason we must ask her about it now.When she gets calmed down, and gets a fine yarn concocted, there’ll besmall use asking her anything!”

  “I’d tackle the old man first,” said Hallen; “I think, on generalprinciples, he’s the one to make inquiries of before you go to theladies. Let’s go to him now.”

  “No;” proposed Burdon, “let’s send for him to come here. This is awayfrom the house, and we can talk more freely.”

  “I’ll go for him,” offered Allen, seeing they were determined to carryout their plan.

  “Not much!” said Burdon. “You’re just aching to put a flea in his ear!You go for him, Hallen.”

  The detective went to the house, and returned with Daniel Wheeler at hisside.

  The suspected man stood straight and held himself fearlessly. Not an oldman, he was grayed with care and trouble, but this morning he seemedstrong and alert as any of them.

  “Put your questions,” he said, briefly, as he seated himself on one ofthe many seats beneath the old sycamore.

  “First of all, who do you think killed Samuel Appleby?”

  This question was shot at him by Burdon, and all waited in silence forthe answer.

  “I killed him myself,” was the straightforward reply.

  “That settles it,” said Hallen, “it was one of the women.”

  “What do you mean by that?” cried Wheeler, turning quickly toward thespeaker.

  “I mean, that either your wife or daughter did the deed, and you aretaking the crime on yourself to save her.”

  “No;” reasserted Dan Wheeler, “you’re wrong. I killed Appleby for goodand sufficient reason. I’m not sorry, and I accept my fate.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Hallen, as Keefe was about to protest; “where wasyour daughter, Miss Maida, when you killed your man?”

  “I—I don’t know. I think she had gone to the fire—which had just brokenout.”

  “You’re not sure——”

  “I am not.”

  “She had been with you, in the den?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I know. She had. She had been sitting in her favorite window-seat,in the large bay, and was there while you and Mr. Appleby were talkingtogether. Also, she did not leave the room to go to the fire, for no onesaw her anywhere near the burning garage.”

  “As to that, I can’t say,” went on Wheeler, slowly, “but she was not inthe den, to my knowledge, at the time of the shooting.”

  “Very well, let that pass. Now, then, Mr. Wheeler, if you shot Mr.Appleby, what did you afterward do with your revolver?”

  “I—I don’t know.” The man’s face was convincing. His frank eyes testifiedto the truth of his words. “I assure you, I don’t know. I was so—sobewildered—that I must have dropped it—somewhere. I never thought of itagain.”

  “But if you had merely dropped it, it must have been found. And it hasn’tbeen.”

  “Somebody else found it and secreted it,” suggested Hallen. “Probably Mr.Wheeler’s wife or daughter.”

  “Perhaps so,” assented Wheeler, calmly. “They might have thought to helpme by secreting it. Have you asked them?”

  “Yes, and they deny all knowledge of it.”

  “So do I. But surely it will be found.”

  “It must be found. And, therefore, it is imperative that the rooms of theladies as well as your own rooms, sir, be thoroughly searched.”

  “All right—go ahead and search!” Wheeler spoke sharply. “I’ve confessedthe crime, now waste no time in useless chattering. Get the evidence, getthe proofs, and let the law take its course.”

  “You will not leave the premises,” put in Hallen, and his tone was thatof command rather than inquiry.

  “I most certainly shall not,” declared Wheeler. “But I do ask you,gentlemen, to trouble and annoy my wife and daughter as little aspossible. Their grief is sufficient reason for their being let alone.”

  “H’m,” grunted Burdon. “Well, sir, I can promise not to trouble theladies more than is necessary—but I can’t help feeling necessity willdemand a great deal.”

  Mrs. Wheeler was next interviewed, and the confab took place in her ownsitting-room.

  None of her family was allowed to be present, and the four men filed intothe room with various expressions of face. The two detectives werestolid-looking, but eagerly determined to do their work, while Allen andKeefe were alertly interested in finding out some way to be of help toMrs. Wheeler.

  She received the men quietly, even graciously, sensing what they had comefor.

  “To start with, Mrs. Wheeler,” said Burdon, frankly but not unkindly,“who do you think killed Mr. Appleby?”

  “Oh—I don’t know—I don’t know,” she wailed, losing her calm and becominggreatly agitated.

  “Where were you when the shot was fired?” asked Hallen.

  “I don’t know—I didn’t hear it——”

  “Then you were up in your own room?”

  “I suppose so—I don’t know.”

  “You were up there when the fire broke out?”

  “Yes—I think I was——”

  “But you must know, Mrs. Wheeler—that is, you must know where you werewhen you first heard of the fire——”

  “Yes, yes; I was up in my bedroom.”

  “And who told you of the fire?”

  “My maid—Rachel.”

  “And then what did you do?”

  “I—I—I don’t remember.”

  “You ran downstairs, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t remember——”

  “Yes, you did!” Burdon took up the reins. “You ran downstairs, and justas you got down to the den you saw—you saw your husband shoot Mr.Appleby!”

  His harsh manner, as he intended, frightened the nervous woman, andreduced her to the verge of collapse.

  But after a gasping moment, she recovered herself, and cried out: “I didnot! I shot Mr. Appleby myself. That’s why I’m so agitated.”

  “I knew it!” exclaimed Burdon. “Mr. Wheeler’s confession was merely tosave his wife. Now, Mrs. Wheeler, I believe your story, and I want allthe particulars. First, why did you kill him?”

  “Be—because he was my husband’s enemy—and I had stood it as long as Icould.”

  “H’m. And what did you do with the weapon you used?”

  “I threw it out of the window.”

  “And it dropped on the lawn?”

  “Not dropped; I threw it far out—as far as I could.”

  “Oh, I see. Out of which window?”

  “Why—why, the one in the den—the bay window.”

  “But your daughter—Miss Maida—was sitting in the bay window.”

  “No, she was not,” Mrs. Wheeler spoke emphatically now. “She was not inthe room at all. She had gone to the fire.”

  “Oh, is that so? And then—what happened next?”

  “Why—nothing. I—I ran upstairs again.”

  “Appalled at what you had done?”

  “Not appalled—so much as—as——”

  “Unnerved?”

  “Yes; unnerved. I fell on my bed, and Rachel looked after me.”

  “Ah, yes; we will interview Rachel, and so save you further harrowingdetails. Come on, men, let’s strike while these irons are hot.”

  The four filed from the room, and Burdon spoke in a low tone, butexcitedly:

  “Come quickly! There goes Miss Maida across the lawn. We will take hernext. The maid, Rachel, can wait.”

  Inwardly rebel
ling, but urged on by the others, Jeff Allen went along,and as Burdon stopped Maida, on her quick walk across the lawn, Jeff puthis arm through that of the girl, and said: “Do as they tell you, dear.It’s best to have this matter settled at once.”

  Again the party grouped themselves under the old sycamore, and this timeMaida was the target for their queries.

  “Tell me all you know of the case,” she said, peremptorily; “then I’lltell you what I know.”

  “We know that the murder was committed by one of you three Wheelers,”said Burdon, brutally. “Now, both your parents have confessed to beingthe criminal——”

  “What?” Maida cried, her face white and her eyes big and frightened.

  “Yes, ma’am, just that! Now, what have you to say? Are you going toconfess also?”

  “Of course I am! For I am the real criminal! Can’t you see that my fatherand mother are both trying to shield me? I did it, because of that awfulman’s hold on my father! Take my confession, and do with me what youwill!”

  “Here’s a state of things!” cried Burdon, truly surprised at this newdevelopment.

  “The girl is telling the truth,” exclaimed Curtis Keefe, not because hereally thought so but his quick mind told him that it would be easier toget a young girl acquitted than an older person, and he saw theplausibility of the detectives’ theory that it must have been one of thethree Wheelers.

  “All right,” Burdon went on, “then, Miss Wheeler, enlighten us as todetails. Where’s the weapon?”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything except that I did it. Do I, Jeffrey?Do I, Mr. Keefe?” She looked at these two for help.

  “No, Miss Wheeler,” Keefe assured her, “you needn’t say a word withoutlegal advice.”

  “But, Maida,” Jeffrey groaned, “you didn’t do it—you know! You couldn’thave!”

  “Yes, I did, Jeff.” Maida’s eyes were glittering, and her voice wassteady. “Of course I did. I’d do anything to save father from any morepersecution by that man! And there was to be more! Oh, don’t let me talk!I mustn’t!”

  “No, you mustn’t,” agreed Keefe. “Now, Burdon, you’ve got threeconfessions! What are you going to do with them?”

  “Going to find out which is the true one,” answered Burdon, with a doggedexpression. “I knew all the time it was one of the three, and I’m notsurprised that the other two are willing to perjure themselves to savethe criminal.”

  “Also, there may have been collusion,” suggested Hallen.

  “Of course,” the other agreed. “But we’ll find out. The whole thing restsamong the three. They must not be allowed to escape——”

  “I’ve no intention of running away!” said Maida, proudly.

  “No one will run away,” opined Hallen, sagaciously. “The criminal willstand by the other two, and the other two will stand by him.”

  “Or her, as the case may be,” supplemented Burdon.

  “Her,” Maida assured him. “In the first place, my mother was upstairs inher own room, and my father was not in the den at the time. I was therealone.”

  “Oh, yes, your father was in the den,” cried Jeffrey, imploringly.

  “No,” said Maida, not catching his meaning.

  But Hallen caught it.

  “Where was Mr. Wheeler?” he asked.

  “I—I don’t know,” Maida said.

  “Well, if he wasn’t in the den, and if he wasn’t upstairs, maybe he wasin the big living-room, looking out at the fire.”

  “Yes—yes, I think he was!” Maida agreed.

  “Then,” Hallen went on, “then, Mr. Wheeler broke his parole—and is duefor punishment.”

  “Oh, no,” Maida moaned, seeing where her statements had led. “I—I guesshe was in the den—after all.”

  “And I guess you’re making up as you go along,” opined Mr. Hallen.