The Mystery of the Sycamore

by Carolyn Wells

  CHAPTER XI FLEMING STONE

  Next day brought the advent of two men and a boy to Sycamore Ridge.

  Samuel Appleby, determined to discover the murderer of his father andconvinced that it was none of the Wheeler family, had brought FlemingStone, the detective, to investigate the case. Stone had a youngassistant who always accompanied him, and this lad, Terence McGuire byname, was a lively, irrepressible chap, with red hair and freckles.

  But his quick thinking and native wit rendered him invaluable to Stone,who had already hinted that McGuire might some day become his successor.

  The Wheeler family, Jeffrey Allen, Curtis Keefe, and Burdon, the localdetective, were all gathered in Mr. Wheeler’s den to recount the wholestory to Fleming Stone.

  With grave attention, Stone listened, and young McGuire eagerly drank ineach word, as if committing a lesson to memory. Which, indeed, he was,for Stone depended on his helper to remember all facts, theories andsuggestions put forward by the speakers.

  Long experience had made Fleming Stone a connoisseur in “cases,” and, bya classification of his own, he divided them into “express” and “local.”By this distinction he meant that in the former cases, he arrived quicklyat the solution, without stop or hindrance. The latter kind involvednecessary stops, even side issues, and a generally impeded course, byreason of conflicting motives and tangled clues.

  As he listened to the story unfolded by the members of the party, hesighed, for he knew this was no lightning express affair. He foresaw muchinvestigation ahead of him, and he already suspected false evidence andperhaps bribed witnesses.

  Yet these conclusions of his were based quite as much on intuition as onevidence, and Stone did not wholly trust intuition.

  Samuel Appleby was the principal spokesman, as he was the one chieflyconcerned in the discovery of the criminal and the avenging of hisfather’s death. Moreover, he was positive the deed had not been done byany one of the Wheeler family, and he greatly desired to prove himselfright in this.

  “But you were not here at the time, Mr. Appleby,” Stone said, “and I mustget the story from those who were. Mr. Keefe, you came with Mr. Appleby,senior, and, also, as his confidential secretary you are in a position toknow of his mental attitudes. Had he, to your knowledge, any fear, anypremonition of evil befalling him?”

  “Not at all,” answered Keefe, promptly. “If he had, I do not know of it,but I think I can affirm that he had not. For, when Mr. Appleby wasanxious, he always showed it. In many ways it was noticeable, if he had aperplexity on his mind. In such a case he was irritable, quick-tempered,and often absent-minded. The day we came down here, Mr. Appleby wasgenial, affable and in a kindly mood. This, to my mind, quite precludesthe idea that he looked for anything untoward.”

  “How did he impress you, Mr. Wheeler?” Stone went on. “You had not seenhim for some time, I believe.”

  “Not for fifteen years,” Dan Wheeler spoke calmly, and with an air ofdetermined reserve. “Our meeting was such as might be expected betweentwo long-time enemies, but Appleby was polite and so was I.”

  “He came to ask a favor of you?”

  “Rather to drive a bargain. He offered me a full pardon in return for myassistance in his son’s political campaign. You, I am sure, know all thisfrom Mr. Appleby, the son.”

  “Yes, I do; I’m asking you if Mr. Appleby, the father, showed in hisconversation with you, any apprehension or gave any intimation of a fearof disaster?”

  “Mr. Stone,” returned Wheeler, “I have confessed that I killed Mr.Appleby; I hold, therefore, that I need say nothing that will influencemy own case.”

  “Well, you see, Mr. Wheeler, this case is unusual—perhaps unique, in thatthree people have confessed to the crime. So far, I am preserving an openmind. Though it is possible you and your wife and daughter acted incollusion, only one of you could have fired the fatal shot; yet you allthree claim to have done so. There is no conclusion to be drawn from thisbut that one is guilty and the other two are shielding that one.”

  “Draw any conclusion you wish,” said Wheeler, still imperturbably. “ButI’ve no objection to replying to the question you asked me. Sam Applebysaid no word to me that hinted at a fear for his personal safety. If hehad any such fear, he kept it to himself.”

  “He knew of your enmity toward him?”

  “Of course. He did me an unforgivable injustice and I never pretendedthat I did not resent it.”

  “And you refused to meet his wishes regarding his son’s campaign?”

  “I most certainly did, for the same reasons I opposed his own electionmany years ago.”

  “Yes; all those details I have from Mr. Appleby, junior. Now, Mr. Applebydoes not believe that his father was killed by any member of your family,Mr. Wheeler.”

  “Can he, then, produce the man whom he does suspect?”

  “No; he suspects no one definitely, but he thinks that by investigation,I can find out the real criminal.”

  “You may as well save your time and trouble, Mr. Stone. I am the man youseek, I freely confess my crime, and I accept my fate, whatever it be.Can I do more?”

  “Yes; if you are telling the truth, go on, and relate details. Whatweapon did you use?”

  “My own revolver.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I threw it out of the window.”

  “Which window?”

  “The—the bay window, in my den.”

  “In this room?”

  “Yes.”

  “That window there?” Stone pointed to the big bay.

  “Yes.”

  “You were sitting there at the time of the shot, were you not, MissWheeler?” Stone turned to Maida, who, white-faced and trembling, listenedto her father’s statements.

  “I was sitting there before the shot,” the girl returned, speaking inquiet, steady tones, though a red spot burned in either cheek. “And then,when Mr. Appleby threatened my father, I shot him myself. My father isuntruthful for my sake. In his love for me he is trying to take my crimeon himself. Oh, believe me, Mr. Stone! Others can testify that I said,long ago, that I could willingly kill Mr. Appleby. He has made my dearfather’s life a living grave! He has changed a brilliant, capable man ofaffairs to a sad and broken-hearted recluse. A man who had everything tolive for, everything to interest and occupy his mind, was condemned to asolitary imprisonment, save for the company of his family! My father’scareer would have been notable, celebrated; but that Samuel Appleby putan end to fifteen years ago, for no reason but petty spite and meanrevenge! I had never seen the man, save as a small child, and when Ilearned he was at last coming here, my primitive passions were stirred,my sense of justice awoke and my whole soul was absorbed in a wildimpulse to rid the world of such a demon in human form! I told my parentsI was capable of killing him; they reproved me, so I said no more. But Ibrooded over the project, and made ready, and then—when Mr. Applebythreatened my father, talked to him brutally, scathingly, fairly turningthe iron in his soul—I could stand it no longer, and I shot him down as Iwould have killed a venomous serpent! I do not regret the act—though I dofear the consequences.”

  Maida almost collapsed, but pulled herself together, to add:

  “That is the truth. You must disregard and disbelieve my father’s nobleefforts to save me by trying to pretend the crime was his own.”

  Stone looked at her pityingly. McGuire stared fixedly; the boy’s eyesround with amazement at this outburst of self-condemnation.

  Then Stone said, almost casually: “You, too, Mrs. Wheeler, confess tothis crime, I believe.”

  “I am the real criminal,” Sara Wheeler asserted, speaking very quietlybut with a steady gaze into the eyes of the listening detective. “You canreadily understand that my husband and daughter are trying to shield me,when I tell you that only I had opportunity. I had possessed myself ofMr. Wheeler’s pistol and as I ran downstairs—well knowing theconversation that was going on, I shot through the d
oors as I passed andrunning on, threw the weapon far out into the shrubbery. It can doubtlessbe found. I must beg of you, Mr. Stone, that you thoroughly investigatethese three stories, and I assure you you will find mine the true one,and the assertions of my husband and daughter merely loving but futileattempts to save me from the consequences of my act.”

  Fleming Stone smiled, a queer, tender little smile.

  “It is certainly a new experience for me,” he said, “when a whole familyinsist on being considered criminals. But I will reserve decision until Ican look into matters a little more fully. Now, who can give me anyinformation on the matter, outside of the identity of the criminal?”

  Jeffrey Allen volunteered the story of the fire, and Keefe told of thestrange bugle call that had been heard.

  “You heard it, Mr. Keefe?” asked Stone, after listening to the account.

  “No; I was with Mr. Appleby on a trip to Boston. I tell it as I heard thetale from the household here.”

  Whereupon the Wheeler family corroborated Keefe’s story, and FlemingStone listened attentively to the various repetitions.

  “You find that bugler, and you’ve got your murderer,” Curtis Keefe said,bluntly. “You agree, don’t you, Mr. Stone, that it was no phantom whoblew audible notes on a bugle?”

  “I most certainly agree to that. I’ve heard many legends, in foreigncountries, of ghostly drummers, buglers and bagpipers, but they aremerely legends—I’ve never found anyone who really heard the sounds. And,moreover, those things aren’t even legends in America. Any bugling donein this country is done by human lungs. Now, this bugler interests me. Ithink, with you, Mr. Keefe, that to know his identity would helpus—whether he proves to be the criminal or not.”

  “He’s the criminal,” Keefe declared, again. “Forgive me, Mr. Stone, if mycertainty seems to you presumptuous or forward, but I’m so thoroughlyconvinced of the innocence of the Wheeler family, that perhaps I amoverenthusiastic in my theory.”

  “A theory doesn’t depend on enthusiasm,” returned Stone, “but on evidenceand proof. Now, how can we set about finding this mysteriousbugler—whether phantom or human?”

  “I thought that’s what you’re here to do,” Sam Appleby said, lookinghelplessly at Fleming Stone.

  “We are,” piped up Terence McGuire, as Stone made no reply. “That’s ourbusiness, and, consequentially, it shall be done.”

  The boy assumed an air of importance that was saved from beingobjectionable by his good-humored face and frank, serious eyes. “I’lljust start in and get busy now,” he went on, and rising, he bobbed afunny little bow that included all present, and left the room.

  It was mid-afternoon, and as they looked out on the wide lawn they sawMcGuire strolling slowly, hands in pockets and seemingly more absorbed inthe birds and flowers than in his vaunted “business.”

  “Perhaps McGuire needs a little explanation,” Stone smiled. “He is myright-hand man, and a great help in detail work. But he has a notaltogether unearned reputation for untruthfulness. Indeed, his nicknameis Fibsy, because of a congenital habit of telling fibs. I advise you ofthis, because I prefer you should not place implicit confidence in hisstatements.”

  “But, Mr. Stone,” cried Maida, greatly interested, “how can he be of anyhelp to you if you can’t depend on what he says?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t lie to me,” Stone assured her; “nor does he tell whoppersat any time. Only, it’s his habit to shade the truth when it seems to himadvisable. I do not defend this habit; in fact, I have persuaded him tostop it, to a degree. But you know how hard it is to reform entirely.”

  “It won’t affect his usefulness, since he doesn’t lie to his employer,”Appleby said, “and, too, it’s none of our business. I’ve engaged Mr.Stone to solve the mystery of my father’s death, and I’m prepared to givehim full powers. He may conduct his investigations on any plan hechooses. My only stipulation is that he shall find a criminal outside theWheeler family.”

  “A difficult and somewhat unusual stipulation,” remarked Stone.

  “Why difficult?” Dan Wheeler said, quickly.

  “Because, with three people confessing a crime, and no one else evenremotely suspected, save a mysterious and perhaps mythical bugle-player,it does not seem an easy job to hunt up and then hunt down a slayer.”

  “But you’ll do it,” begged Appleby, almost pleadingly, “for it must bedone.”

  “We’ll see,” Stone replied. “And now tell me more about the fire in thegarage. It occurred at the time of the shooting, you say? What startedit?”

  But nobody knew what started it.

  “How could we know?” asked Jeff Allen. “It was only a small fire and themost it burned was the robe in Mr. Appleby’s own car and a motor coatthat was also in the car.”

  “Whose coat?” asked Stone.

  “Mine,” said Keefe, ruefully. “A bit of bad luck, too, for it was a newone. I had to get another in place of it.”

  “And you think the fire was the result of a dropped cigarette or match byMr. Appleby’s chauffeur?”

  “I don’t know,” returned Keefe. “He denies it, of course, but it musthave been that or an incendiary act of some one.”

  “Maybe the bugler person,” suggested Stone.

  “Maybe,” assented Keefe, though he did not look convinced.

  “I think Mr. Keefe thinks it was the work of my own men,” said DanWheeler. “And it may have been. There’s one in my employ who has anignorant, brutal spirit of revenge, and if he thought Samuel Appleby wasinimical to me, he would be quite capable of setting fire to the Applebycar. That may be the fact of the case.”

  “It may be,” agreed Stone. “Doubtless we can find out——”

  “How?” asked Allen. “That would be magician’s work, I think.”

  “A detective has to be a magician,” Stone smiled at him. “We quite oftendo more astounding tricks than that.”

  “Go to it, then!” cried Appleby. “That’s the talk I like to hear.Questions and answers any of us can put over. But the real detecting islike magic. At least, I can’t see how it’s done. Duff in, Mr. Stone. Getbusy.”

  The group dispersed then, Fleming Stone going to his room and the othersstraying off by twos or threes.

  Burdon, who had said almost nothing during the confab, declared he wanteda talk with the great detective alone, and would await his pleasure.

  So Burdon sat by himself, brooding, on the veranda, and presently saw theboy, Fibsy, returning toward the house.

  “Come here, young one,” Burdon called out.

  “Nixy, old one,” was the saucy retort.

  “Why not?” in a conciliatory tone.

  “’Cause you spoke disrespectful like. I’m a detective, you know.”

  “All right, old pal; come here, will you?”

  Fibsy grinned and came, seating himself on a cushioned swing nearby.

  “Whatcha want?” he demanded.

  “Only a line o’ talk. Your Mr. Stone, now, do you think he’ll show upsoon, or has he gone for a nap?”

  “Fleming Stone doesn’t take naps,” Fibsy said, disdainfully; “he isn’tthat sort.”

  “Then he’ll be down again shortly?”

  “Dunno. Maybe he’s begun his fasting and prayer over this phenomenalcase.”

  “Does he do that?”

  “How do I know? I’m not of a curious turn of mind, me havin’ other sinsto answer for.”

  “I know. Mr. Stone told us you have no respect for the truth.”

  “Did he, now! Well, he’s some mistaken! I have such a profound respectfor the truth that I never use it except on very special occasions.”

  “Is this one?”

  “It is not! Don’t believe a word I say just now. In fact, I’m so lit upwith the beauties and glories of this place, that I hardly know what I ama-saying! Ain’t it the show-place, though!”

  “Yes, it is. Looky here, youngster, can’t you go up and coax Mr. Stone tosee me—just a few minutes?”

 
“Nope; can’t do that. But you spill it to me, and if it’s worth it, I’llrepeat it to him. I’m really along for that very purpose, you see.”

  “But I haven’t anything special to tell him——”

  “Oh, I see! Just want the glory and honor of chinning with the greatStone!”

  As this so nearly expressed Burdon’s intention, he grinned sheepishly,and Fibsy understood.

  “No go, old top,” he assured him. “F. Stone will send for you if hethinks you’ll interest him in the slightest degree. Better wait for thesending—it’ll mean a more satisfactory interview all round.”

  “Well, then, let’s you and me chat a bit.”

  “Oho, coming round to sort of like me, are you? Well, I’m willing. Tellme this: how far from the victim did the shooter stand?”

  “The doctor said, as nearly as he could judge, about ten feet or soaway.”

  “H’m,” and Fibsy looked thoughtful. “That would just about suit all threeof the present claimants for the honor, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes; and would preclude anybody not inside the room.”

  “Unless he was close to the window.”

  “Sure. But it ain’t likely, is it now, that a rank outsider would comeright up to the window and fire through it, and not be seen by anybody?”

  “No; it isn’t. And, of course, if that had happened, and any one of thethree Wheelers had seen it, they would be only too glad to tell of it. Iwonder they haven’t made up some such yarn as that.”

  “You don’t know the Wheelers. I do, and I can see how they would perjurethemselves—any of them—and confess to a crime they didn’t commit, to saveeach other—but it wouldn’t occur to them to invent a murderer—or to saythey saw some one they didn’t see. Do you get the difference?”

  “Being an expert in the lyin’ game, I do,” and Fibsy winked.

  “It isn’t only that. It’s not only that they’re unwilling to lie aboutit, but they haven’t the—the, well, ingenuity to contrive a plausibleyarn.”

  “Not being lying experts, just as I said,” Fibsy observed. “Well, we allhave our own kind of cleverness. Now, mine is finding things. Want to seean example?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “All right. How far did you say the shooter person stood from hisvictim?”

  “About ten feet—but I daresay it might be two or three feet, more orless.”

  “No; they can judge closer’n that by the powder marks. The truth wouldn’tvary more’n a foot or so, from their say. Now, s’posin’ the shooter didthrow the revolver out of the bay window, as the three Wheelers agree,severally, they did do, where would it most likely land?”

  “In that clump of rhododendrons.”

  “Yep; if they threw it straight ahead. I s’pose you’ve looked there forit?”

  “Yes, raked the place thoroughly.”

  “All right. Now if they slung the thing over toward the right, wherewould it land?”

  “On the smooth lawn.”

  “And you didn’t find it there!”

  “No. What are you doing? Stringing me?”

  “Oh, no, sir; oh, no! Now, once again. If they chanced to fling saidrevolver far to the left, where would it land?”

  “Why—in that big bed of ferns—if they threw it far enough.”

  “Looked there?”

  “No; I haven’t.”

  “C’mon, let’s take a squint.”

  Fibsy rose and lounged over toward the fern bed, Burdon following, almostcertain he was being made game of.