CHAPTER XII THE GARAGE FIRE
“Now, watch me,” he said, and with a quick thrust of his arm down amongthe ferns, he drew forth a revolver, which he turned over to Burdon.
“Land o’ goodness!” exclaimed that worthy. “Howja know it was there?”
“Knew it must be—looked for it—saw it,” returned the boy, nonchalantly,and then, hearing a short, sharp whistle, he looked up at the house tosee Fleming Stone regarding him from an upper window.
“Found the weapon, Fibs?” he inquired.
“Yes, Mr. Stone.”
“All right. Bring it up here, and ask Mr. Burdon to come along.”
Delighted at the summons, Burdon followed the boy’s flying feet and theywent up to Stone’s rooms. A small and pleasant sitting-room had beengiven over to the detective, and he admitted his two visitors, thenclosed the door.
“Doing the spectacular, Terence?” Stone said, smiling a little.
“Just one grandstand play,” the boy confessed. As a matter of fact, hehad located the pistol sometime earlier, but waited to make the discoveryseem sensational.
“All right; let’s take a look at it.”
Without hesitation, Burdon pronounced the revolver Mr. Wheeler’s. It hadno initials on it, but from Wheeler’s minute description, Burdonrecognized it beyond reasonable doubt. One bullet had been fired from it,and the calibre corresponded to the shot that had killed Samuel Appleby.
“Oh, it’s the right gun, all right,” Burdon said, “but I never thought oflooking over that way for it. Must have been thrown by a left-handedman.”
“Oh, not necessarily,” said Stone. “But it was thrown with a consciousdesire to hide it, and not flung away in a careless or preoccupiedmoment.”
“And what do you deduce from that?” asked Burdon, quite prepared to hearthe description of the murderer’s physical appearance and mentalattainments.
“Nothing very definite,” Stone mused. “We might say it looked more likethe act of a strong-willed man such as Mr. Wheeler, than of a frightenedand nervously agitated woman.”
“If either of those two women did it,” Burdon offered, “she wasn’tnervous or agitated. They’re not that sort. They may go to piecesafterward, but whatever Mrs. Wheeler or Maida undertake to do, they putit over all right. I’ve known ’em for years, and I never knew either ofthem to show the white feather.”
“Well, it was not much of an indication, anyway,” Stone admitted, “but itdoes prove a steady nerve and a planning brain that would realize theadvisability of flinging the weapon where it would not be probablysought. Now, as this is Mr. Wheeler’s revolver, there’s no use asking thethree suspects anything about it. For each has declared he or she used itand flung it away. That in itself is odd—I mean that they should all tellthe same story. It suggests not collusion so much as the idea thatwhoever did the shooting was seen by one or both of the others.”
“Then you believe it was one of the three Wheelers?” asked Burdon.
“I don’t say that, yet,” returned Stone. “But they must be reckoned with.I want to eliminate the innocent two and put the guilt on the third—ifthat is where it belongs.”
“And if not, which way are you looking?”
“Toward the fire. That most opportune fire in the garage seems to meindicative of a criminal who wanted to create a panic so he could carryout his murderous design with neatness and despatch.”
“And that lets out the women?”
“Not if, as you say, they’re of the daring and capable sort.”
“Oh, they are! If Maida Wheeler did this thing, she could stage the fireeasily enough. Or Mrs. Wheeler could, either. They’re hummers when itcomes to efficiency and actually doing things!”
“You surprise me. Mrs. Wheeler seems such a gentle, delicatepersonality.”
“Yep; till she’s roused. Then she’s full of tiger! Oh, I know SaraWheeler. You ask my wife what Mrs. Wheeler can do!”
“Tell me a little more of this conditional pardon matter. Is it possiblethat for fifteen years Mr. Wheeler has never stepped over to theforbidden side of his own house?”
“Perfectly true. But it isn’t his house, it’s Mrs. Wheeler’s. Her folksare connected with the Applebys and it was the work of old Appleby thatthe property came to Sara with that tag attached, that she must live inMassachusetts. Also, Appleby pardoned Wheeler on condition that he neverstepped foot into Massachusetts. And there they were. It was SaraWheeler’s ingenuity and determination that planned the house on the stateline, and she has seen to it that Dan Wheeler never broke parole. It’ssecond nature to him now, of course.”
“But I’m told that he did step over the night of the murder. That he wentinto the sitting-room of his wife—or maybe into the forbidden end of thatlong living-room—to see the fire. It would be a most natural thing forhim to do.”
“Not natural, no, sir.” Burdon rubbed his brow thoughtfully. “Yet hemight ’a’ done it. But one misstep like that ought to be overlooked, Ithink.”
“And would be by his friends—but suppose there’s an enemy at work.Suppose, just as a theory, that somebody is ready to take advantage ofthe peculiar situation, that seems to prove Dan Wheeler was eitheroutside his prescribed territory—or he was the murderer. To my way ofthinking, at present, that man’s alibi is his absence from the scene ofthe crime. And, if he was absent, he must have been over the line. I knowthis from talks I’ve had with the servants and the family and guests, andI’m pretty confident that Wheeler was either in the den or in theforbidden north part of the house at the moment of the murder.”
“Why don’t you know which it was?” asked Burdon, bluntly.
“Because,” said Stone, not resenting the question, “because I can’t placeany dependence on the truth of the family’s statements. For threerespectable, God-fearing citizens, they are most astonishingly willing,even eager, to perjure themselves. Of course, I know they do it for oneanother’s sake. They have a strange conscience that allows them to lieoutright for the sake of a loved one. And, it may be, commit murder forthe sake of a loved one! But all this I shall straighten out when I getfurther along. The case is so widespread, so full of ramifications andpossible side issues, I have to go carefully at first, and not getentangled in false clues.”
“Got any clue, sir? Any real ones?”
“Meaning dropped handkerchiefs and broken cuff-links?” Stone chaffed him.“Well, there’s the pistol. That’s a material clue. But, no, I can’tproduce anything else—at present. Well, Terence, what luck?”
Fibsy, who had slipped from the room at the very beginning of thisinterview, now returned.
“It’s puzzlin’—that’s what it is, puzzlin’,” he declared, throwinghimself astride of a chair. “I’ve raked that old garage fore and aft, butI can’t track down the startings of that fire. You see, the place isstucco and all that, and besides the discipline of this whole layout isalong the lines of p’ison neatness! Everybody that works at SycamoreRidge has to be a very old maid for keeping things clean! So, there’s nochance for accumulated rubbish or old rags or spontaneous combustion oranything of the sort. Nextly, none of the three men who have any call togo into the garage ever smoke in there. That’s a Mede and Persian law.Gee, Mr. Wheeler is some efficient boss! Well, anyway, after the fire,though they tried every way to find out what started it, they couldn’tfind a thing! There was no explanation but a brand dropped from theskies, or a stroke of lightning! And there was no storm on. It wouldn’tall be so sure, but the morning after, it seems, Mr. Allen and Mr. Keefewere doin’ some sleuthin’ on their own, and they couldn’t find out howthe fire started. So, they put it up to the garage men, and they hunted,too. It seems nothing was burnt but some things in Mr. Appleby’s car,which, of course, lets out his chauffeur, who had no call to burn up hisown duds. And a coat of his was burned and also a coat of Mr. Keefe’s.”
“What were those coats doing in an unused car?” asked Stone.
“Oh, they were extra motor coats, or raincoats, or something like that,and they always staid in the car.”
“Where, in the car?”
“I asked that,” Fibsy returned, “and they were hanging on the coat-rail.I thought there might have been matches in the pockets, but they say no.There never had been matches in those coat pockets, nor any matches inthe Appleby car, for that matter.”
“Well, the fire is pretty well mixed up in the murder,” declared Stone.“Now it’s up to us to find out how.”
“Ex-cuse me, Mr. Stone,” and Burdon shook his head; “you’ll never get atit that way.”
“Ex-cuse me, Mr. Burdon,” Fibsy flared back, “Mr. Stone _will_ get at itthat way, if he thinks that’s the way to look. You don’t know F. Stoneyet——”
“Hush up, Fibs; Mr. Burdon will know if I succeed, and, perhaps he’sright as to the unimportance of the fire, after all.”
“You see,” Burdon went on, unabashed, “Mr. Keefe—now, he’s some smart inthe detective line—he said, find your phantom bugler, and you’ve got yourmurderer! Now, what nonsense that is! As if a marauding villain wouldannounce himself by playing on a bugle!”
“Yet there may be something in it,” demurred Stone. “It may well be thatthe dramatic mind that staged this whole mysterious affair is responsiblefor the bugle call, the fire, and the final crime.”
“In that case, it’s one of the women,” Burdon said. “They could do allthat, either of them, if they wanted to; but Dan Wheeler, while he couldkill a man on provocation—it would be an impulsive act—not a premeditatedone. No, sir! Wheeler could see red, and go Berserk, but he couldn’t planout a complicated affair like you’re turning this case into!”
“I’m not turning it into anything,” Stone laughed. “I’m taking it as itis presented to me, but I do hold that the phantom bugler and theopportune fire are theatrical elements.”
“A theatrical element, too, is the big sycamore,” and Burdon smiled.“Now, if that tree should take a notion to walk over into Massachusetts,it would help out some.”
“What’s that?” cried Fibsy. “What do you mean?”
“Well, the Wheelers have got a letter from Appleby, written while he wasstill governor, and it says that when the big sycamore goes intoMassachusetts, Wheeler can go, too. But it can’t be done by a trick. Imean, they can’t transplant the thing, or chop it down and take the woodover. It’s got to go of its own accord.”
“Mere teasing,” said Stone.
“Yes, sir, just that. Appleby had a great streak of teasing. He used totease everybody just for the fun of seeing them squirm. This wholeWheeler business was the outcome of Appleby’s distorted love of fun. AndWheeler took it so seriously that Appleby kept it up. I’ll warrant, ifWheeler had treated the whole thing as a joke, Appleby would have let upon him. But Dan Wheeler is a solemn old chap, and he saw no fun in thewhole matter.”
“I don’t blame him,” commented Stone. “Won’t he get pardoned now?”
“No, sir, he won’t. Some folks think he will, but I know better. Thepresent governor isn’t much for pardoning old sentences—he says itestablishes precedent and all that. And the next governor is more thanlikely to say the same.”
“I hear young Mr. Appleby isn’t going to run.”
“No, sir, he ain’t. Though I daresay he will some other time. But thisdeath of his father and the mystery and all, is no sort of help to acampaign. And, too, young Appleby hasn’t the necessary qualifications toconduct a campaign, however good he might be as governor after he gotelected. No; Sam won’t run.”
“Who will?”
“Dunno, I’m sure. But there’ll be lots ready and eager for a try at it.”
“I suppose so. Well, Burdon, I’m going down now to ask some questions ofthe servants. You know they’re a mine of information usually.”
“Kin I go?” asked Fibsy.
“Not now, son. You stay here, or do what you like. But don’t say much anddon’t antagonize anybody.”
“Not me, F. Stone!”
“Well, don’t shock anybody, then. Behave like a gentleman and a scholar.”
“Yessir,” Fibsy ducked a comical bow, and Burdon, understanding he wasdismissed, went home.
To the dining-room Stone made his way, and asked a maid there if he mightsee the cook.
Greatly frightened, the waitress brought the cook to the dining-room.
But the newcomer, a typical, strong-armed, strong-minded individual, wasnot at all abashed.
“What is it you do be wantin’, sor?” she asked, civilly enough, but atrifle sullenly.
“Only a few answers to direct questions. Where were you when you firstheard the alarm of the garage fire?”
“I was in me kitchen, cleanin’ up after dinner.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran out the kitchen door and, seein’ flames, I ran toward the garage.”
“Before you ran, you were at the rear of the house—I mean the south side,weren’t you?”
“Yes, sor, I was.”
“You passed along the south veranda?”
“Not along it,” the cook looked at him wonderingly—“but by the end of it,like.”
“And did you see any one on the veranda? Any one at all?”
The woman thought hard. “Well, I sh’d have said no—first off—but now youspeak of it, I must say I do have a remimbrance of seein’ a figger—butsort of vague like.”
“You mean your memory of it is vague—you don’t mean a shadowy figure?”
“No, sor. I mean I can’t mind it rightly, now, for I was thinkin’intirely of the fire, and so as I was runnin’ past the end of the verandyall I can say is, I just glimpsed like, a person standin’ there.”
“Standing?”
“Well, he might have been moving—I dunno.”
“Are you sure it was a man?”
“I’m not. I’m thinkin’ it was, but yet, I couldn’t speak it for sure.”
“Then you went on to the fire?”
“Yes, sor.”
“And thought no more about the person on the veranda?”
“No, sor. And it niver wud have entered me head again, savin’ yourspeakin’ of it now. Why—was it the—the man that——”
“Oh, probably not. But everything I can learn is of help in discoveringthe criminal and perhaps freeing your employers from suspicion.”
“And I wish that might be! To put it on the good man, now! And worse,upon the ladies—angels, both of them!”
“You are fond of the family, then?”
“I am that! I’ve worked here for eight years, and never a cross word fromthe missus or the master. As for Miss Maida—she’s my darlint.”
“They’re fortunate in having you here,” said Stone, kindly. “That’s all,now, cook, unless you can remember anything more of that person you saw.”
“Nothin’ more, sor. If I do, I’ll tell you.”
Thinking hard, Stone left her.
It was the most unusual case he had ever attempted. If he looked nofurther for the murderer than the Wheeler family, he still had enough todo in deciding which one of the three was guilty. But he yearned foranother suspect. Not a foolish phantom that went around piping, or aperhaps imaginary prowler stalking on the piazza, but a real suspect witha sound, plausible motive.
Though, to be sure, the Wheelers had motive enough. To be condemned to anabsurd restriction and then teased about it, was enough to make life galland wormwood to a sensitive man like Wheeler.
And who could say what words had passed between them at that finalinterview? Perhaps Appleby had goaded him to the breaking point; perhapsWheeler had stood it, but his wife, descending the stairs and hearing themen talk, had grown desperate at last; or, and Stone knew he thought thismost plausible of all, perhaps Maida, in her window-seat, had stood aslong as she could the aspersions and tauntings directed at her adoredfather, and had, with a reckless disregard of consequences, silenced theenemy forever.
Of
young Allen, Stone had no slightest suspicion. To be sure, hisinterests were one with the Wheeler family, and moreover, he had hopedfor a release from restrictions that would let the Wheelers go intoMassachusetts and thereby make possible his home there with Maida.
For Maida’s vow that she would never go into the state if her fathercould not go, too, was, Allen knew, inviolable.
All this Stone mulled over, yet had no thought that Allen was the one hewas seeking. Also, Curtis Keefe had testified that Allen was with him atthe fire, during the time that included the moment of shooting.
Strolling out into the gardens, the detective made his way to the greattree, the big sycamore.
Here Fibsy joined him, and at Stone’s tacit nod of permission, the boysat down beside his superior on the bench under the tree.
“What’s this about the tree going to Massachusetts?” Fibsy asked, hisfreckled face earnestly inquiring.
“One of old Appleby’s jokes,” Stone returned. “Doubtless made just aftera reading of ‘Macbeth.’ You know, or if you don’t, you must read it upfor yourself, there’s a scene there that hinges on Birnam Wood going toDunsinane. I can’t take time to tell you about it, but quite evidently itpleased the old wag to tell Mr. Wheeler that he could go into his nativestate when this great tree went there.”
“Meaning not at all, I s’pose.”
“Of course. And any human intervention was not allowed. So though BirnamWood _was_ brought to Dunsinane, such a trick is not permissible in hiscase. However, that’s beside the point just now. Have you seen any of theservants?”
“Some. But I got nothing. They’re willing enough to talk, but they don’tknow anything. They say I’d better tackle the ladies’ maid, a fairRachel. So I’m going for her. But I bet I won’t strike pay-dirt.”
“You may. Skip along, now, for here comes Miss Maida, and she’s probablylooking for me.”
Fibsy departed, and Maida, looking relieved to find Stone alone, camequickly toward him.
“You see, Mr. Stone,” she began, “you must _start_ straight in thisthing. And the only start possible is for you to be convinced that Ikilled Mr. Appleby.”
“But you must admit, Miss Wheeler, that I am not _too_ absurd in thinkingthat though you say you did it, you are saying it to shield some oneelse—some one who is near and dear to you.”
“I know you think that—but it isn’t so. How can I convince you?”
“Only by circumstantial evidence. Let me question you a bit. Where didyou get the revolver?”
“From my father’s desk drawer, where he always keeps it.”
“You are familiar with firearms?”
“My father taught me to shoot years ago. I’m not a crack shot—but thatwas not necessary.”
“You premeditated the deed?”
“For some time I have felt that I wanted to kill that man.”
“Your conscience?”
“Is very active. I deliberately went against its dictates for my father’ssake.”
“And you killed Mr. Appleby because he hounded your father in addition tothe long deprivation he had imposed on him?”
“No, not that alone. Oh, I don’t want to tell you—but, if you won’tbelieve me otherwise, Mr. Stone, I will admit that I had a new motive——”
“A new one?”
“Yes, a secret that I learned only a day or so before—before Mr.Appleby’s death.”
“The secret was Appleby’s?”
“Yes; that is, he knew it. He told it to me. If any one else should knowit, it would mean the utter ruin and desolation of the lives of myparents, compared to which this present condition of living is Paradiseitself!”
“This is true, Miss Wheeler?”
“Absolutely true. _Now_, do you understand why I killed him?”
The Mystery of the Sycamore Page 12