Our party comprised Inspector Barron and his men, the Surrogate's clerk who cut the seals on the front door, Maggie Dolan, the dead woman's former maid, and Thomas Jackman, her long discarded husband. The last–named was a middle–aged man, meek and crushed–looking, painfully anxious to please. His seedy attire suggested the actor long out of work.
Inside there was something horrible in the air. The rooms expressed a kind of slatternly luxury; cushioned furniture, stuffy hangings, gilt ornaments; none of it too clean. There was a faint smell of cigarette smoke and stale whiskey everywhere; the silence and chill were like an old cemetery vault.
Beginning with the basement kitchen which had a door on the backyard, Mme. Storey immediately set about one of her whirlwind examinations of the premises. It is beautiful to watch her exactitude and concentration. With her magnifying glass she lingered long over the yard door. From the basement she proceeded direct to the second floor, boudoir in front, bedroom in the rear. These rooms were full of ghastly reminders of the dead. Nobody had troubled to tidy up, and the woman's clothes still lay where she had flung them, though she herself was under the sod. The grimmest touch was the expensive mink coat that somebody had brought in and dropped on a chair. One could picture the dead body lying wrapped in it on the sodden ground under a leafless bush. These rooms were drugged with perfume. Mme. Storey with her glass was led like a sleuth hound to a little steel safe built into the side of a writing desk in the boudoir. She dropped to her knees in front of it, and holding her ear close to the lock, turned the knob this way and that, closing her eyes and listening with intense concentration.
The door of the safe presently swung open. It contained but a single compartment. In it lay a confused heap of glittering jewellery; bracelets, rings, necklets. She disregarded the jewels. After examining the inside of the compartment with the utmost care, she closed the door again, and gave the knob a twirl to lock it.
Afterwards she stood thinking hard, piecing out a pattern of reasoning in her mind. Suddenly she went to a handsome silver tea service on a –small table between the windows. Amongst the pieces was an antique silver tea–caddy. Removing the top, she emptied the tea into the tray. Inserting two fingers into the caddy, she drew out a folded paper.
“It's a lone woman's pet hiding–place,” she murmured with a grim smile. “Quick! Put the tea back into the caddy!”
I hastily obeyed. Meanwhile Mme. Storey, removing an outer wrapper of plain paper, revealed an old letter, folded small.
She spread it out, taking care not to injure it. As she read it her face became as grave as marble.
“Let's go down,” she said quietly. “I want to ask the maid a question or two.” The others were in the drawing–room. Maggie Dolan was a woman of forty odd all rigged out in her mistress's cast–off finery; an easy–going creature like most of her kind.
“Did your mistress carry a latchkey?” asked Mme. Storey.
“Sure, Ma'am,” answered Maggie. “She wouldn't wait on the step.”
“Last Monday, that is the night she didn't come home, were you disturbed at all?”
The woman stared at her, startled. “Sure I was so,” she said. “How did you know? I sleep in the front basement. I hear a noise upstairs, and I run up because often when she come home late she wanted helping. I could swear I heard the door close, but there wasn't nobody there. I was scared. I put the chain on the door and sit down to wait for her. But she never come, and at eight o'clock the police telephoned ...”
“Why didn't you tell this at the inquest?” put in Barron sharply.
“Nobody asked me, sir,” said Maggie.
“One more question,” said Mme. Storey. “Where did Miss Rousseau's income come from?”
Maggie shook her head. “It wouldn't be Ada to tell anybody that. All I know is she got five hundred in cash every week. Went out a Saturday morning and fetched it. I don't know where she got it.”
Mme. Storey blew a cloud of cigarette smoke, and studied Maggie through it; a trick she has with a witness.
“Wait now!” said Maggie. “I recollect the money was brought to her once a couple of years ago when she was sick abed.
Young fellow brought it and took her receipt.”
“Would you know him again?” asked Mme. Storey carelessly.
“I sure would, Ma'am. He was a pretty fellow.”
“That's all,” said Mme. Storey. She turned to Barron. “On the night of Ada Rousseau's death somebody entered the house with her key. He couldn't get in that way again, because on Tuesday night the police were here, and on Wednesday it was sealed up by the court.”
“Well?” said Barron as she paused.
“On Wednesday night,” said Mme. Storey, flicking the ash off her cigarette, “somebody forced an entrance through the door on the yard.”
There was a general exclamation. “How do you know?” demanded Barron.
“The evidence is in the door. He broke a pane of glass, and put his hand in to draw the bolt and turn the key. He brought a new pane with him, puttied it in, and painted the putty to match the other panes. When he left, he locked the door and carried the key with him.”
“How do you know this was Wednesday night?”
“The paint has dried, and a certain amount of dust has fallen on it.”
Jackman, the woman's ex–husband and her heir who had scarcely spoken up to now, became violently agitated. The seedy old actor did not appear to be acting now. The cry was forced from him. “Broke in? Broke in? For what?”
“Obviously to search for something,” said Mme. Storey. “A cool hand. He wore cotton gloves. He went direct to the safe in the boudoir.”
“Oh, my God!” gasped Jackman, clutching his head. “Ada's jewels! That's all there is of any value!”
“How could he know the combination of the safe?” put in Barron.
“He didn't have to know it. It is a simple lock. If he knew the kind of lock it was, he could have taught himself to open such a lock before he came. All you have to do is to turn the knob and listen for the tumblers to engage. I have just opened it myself. I saw the marks of the cotton gloves in the dust inside, but the jewels have not been disturbed.”
“How do you know he didn't take something else ... something else?” stuttered Jackman.
“He didn't find what he was after,” said Mme. Storey coolly, “because he came back on Thursday night and searched further. Also Friday night, Saturday night, and last night. He hasn't found it yet.”
Jackman passed a handkerchief over his sweating face.
“How can you reconstruct his movements so exactly?” demanded Barron.
“The nocturnal visitor is a man,” answered Mme. Storey, smiling. “He overlooked the marks he was leaving everywhere in the dust. Any woman who has ever kept house in New York can figure pretty exactly how much dust falls in twenty–four hours.”
“What is he after?” cried Barron.
She shrugged. “How can I tell? One might guess that it was some piece of evidence in the possession of Ada Rousseau that enabled her to collect five hundred dollars a week for twenty years. Twenty–five thousand dollars a year. That's the interest on half a million. It's a good round sum.”
Barron drove his fist into his palm.
“By God, yes!” he cried. “And that's why the woman was murdered!”
My employer glanced at me privately, and pulled a droll face. Here was a sudden change of front.
“What do you propose to do next?” asked Barron.
“Lie in wait for our friend tonight,” she said, turning a ring on her finger.
At midnight, Mme. Storey and I were concealed in the passage leading from the foot of the basement stairs back to the kitchen. It was as black as your hat there. My employer had chosen the spot because the electric light switch was within reach of her hand. Inspector Barron was crouched down below the table under the kitchen window, and his secretary, young Slosson, was in a sort of broom closet alongside the door from the yard. Slo
sson, a husky specimen, was supposed to pop out and cut off the man's retreat. Jackman, the heir–at–law, had insisted on being present in the house and the Surrogate's clerk was there in the way of duty.
These two and several plain clothes men were waiting upstairs in the dark drawing–room. I ought to mention that during the afternoon our man, Crider, had succeeded in finding the taxi–driver who had picked up Ada Rousseau and the unknown young man outside Raffaello's. He had driven them to a point in Fifty–Sixth Street where they got out of his cab and entered a private car that was waiting. The woman appeared to be too drunk to realize what she was doing. The taxi–driver thought there was another man in the back of the private car, but did not get a good look at him. Mme. Storey had not brought Crider with us to the sealed house. He had been sent away with some instructions that were as yet unknown to me.
It was so still throughout the house that I could hear the mice scrabbling and squeaking behind the plaster. The smell of the old foul gas–cooker filled the kitchen. I am no good at such times. I can face actual danger well enough; but to have to wait for the unknown demoralizes me. I felt as if there was a hard hand closing around my throat.
Mme. Storey whispered: “Move around a bit. It lets down the strain.”
So I started pacing the linoleum–covered passage between the stairs and the kitchen door, feeling my way along the wall. Once as I approached Mme. Storey, she touched me lightly, and I froze where I stood. “Listen!” she whispered.
I heard some slight sounds from the yard in the rear, and the thud of a hard body on the earth. A faint light came from outside, and presently a shadow darkened the panes of the door; shoulders and a head with a soft hat pulled down. The key turned in the lock and he opened the door. For a moment he stood there listening, then came in.
It was all over in a second. The kitchen light flooded on; Barron rose from beside the table pointing a gun. Slosson stepped out of the closet. “Put 'em up!” growled Barron.
The new–comer did not so much as flinch at the gun. A handsome young man with dark, keen eyes and a resolute mouth. He was well–dressed. The gloved hands were empty. He looked at Barron unafraid, and turning his head coolly, took in Slosson and his gun. When he saw Mme. Storey and me in the doorway, his eyes widened in astonishment, but he said nothing. Whatever he may be, you can't but respect a man who keeps his mouth shut.
“Put 'em up!” repeated Barron, making an ugly move with the gun.
The young man smiled contemptuously. “Put away your guns,” he said. “I'm not armed. I'm no killer.”
Barron and his man seized him and patted him all over. All they found on him was an electric torch, and they returned their guns to their pockets. Slosson shot the bolt in the door.
“Who are you?” demanded Barron.
“I'll never tell you,” said the young man coolly.
“You fool!” cried Barron angrily.
“You're caught! The game is up! Give an account of yourself!” He showed the badge under his coat.
A desperate look came into the young man's face, but it was not fear. “Sure, the game is up!” he muttered bitterly. “But I'm not talking.”
Barron cursed him savagely. Mme. Storey came forward with a more conciliatory air.
“We know you're no common thief,” she said.
He took off his hat when she addressed him. He had a shapely, well–poised head. “Who are you?” he asked warily.
“I don't know if it means anything to you,” my employer replied; “I am Rosika Storey.”
He softened a little. “Yes, I know who you are,” he said. “I wish you were on my side instead of against me.”
Barron launched out at him again. “You had better come clean!”
His loud voice brought the other men running down into the kitchen. Jackman, whose property was threatened, bored into the young man with his frightened suspicious eyes, but he could make no more of him than Barron.
The young housebreaker suddenly changed his tactics. “My name is Lawrence Lowe,” he said to Barron with a mocking grin, “or anything else you like. I read in the papers that this woman had left a small fortune in jewels, and the house was empty, and I came to lift them, that's all. I hired a room in the house that backs up on this, and made a portable ladder to throw over the fence.”
“You're lying!” shouted Barron. “There's more to it than that. You'll be charged with murder!”
“You'll have a tough job hanging that on me, old man,” the other answered coolly. “You'd better be satisfied with a charge of attempted burglary, or unlawful entry or whatever it is, you call it. I'll plead guilty to that, and take the rap.”
“I'll make you talk!” cried Barron.
The young man's dark eyes blazed up.
“Sure!” he said. “I've heard of the rubber hose and the water cure, and the brass knucks and all. But they'll never fetch anything out of me. You can kill me sooner!”
Mme. Storey lit a cigarette and, keenly watching the young man through the smoke, pursued her own train of thought. She presently whispered to me to call up Maggie Dolan and tell her to come at once.
When I returned to the kitchen, Barron was still storming. The dark young man was leaning back, half–sitting on the table, with his hands down at each side gripping the edge. His unafraid glance travelled around from one to another, sizing us up. Though he had not a friend there, he kept his head, and coolly parried Barron's questions.
“You're lying!” cried the Inspector. “We know that you've been into the safe, and that you left the jewels there.”
“That's foolish,” came the smiling answer. “What should a thief be looking for but jewels!”
He steadily faced Barron out.
And then he suddenly collapsed. He heard sounds from the yard. He stiffened, a look of agony came into his face and his eyes bolted.
“Oh, for God's sake, keep her out of this!” he cried brokenly. “Keep her out! Keep her out!”
At the same moment the door was violently rattled, and a woman's voice cried out: “Let me in!” Slosson threw the bolt back, and a bareheaded blonde girl ran into the light.
She was perfectly blind to all of us there in the kitchen except one. She ran to him and slipping her arm under his, caught it hard against her breast. Her eyes piteously searched his face. “Oh, Ralph, what has happened?” she gasped.
He turned away his head. “Why did you have to come!” he groaned.
“From my window I saw the lights go up,” she protested. “I saw people moving about; I knew you were in danger; I couldn't stay away. I'm not made of wood!”
He was unable to speak.
“What has happened? What has happened?” she cried, shaking his arm.
“I'm caught,” he said in a low bitter voice. “These are police. This one – was pointing to Barron – ”appears to be an Inspector because he wears a gold badge. The lady yonder is the celebrated Madame Storey!”
“Well, if you're caught I might as well be caught too,” she murmured. She turned and faced us defiantly.
Life came back into the young man's face. He threw an arm around the girl's shoulders and drew her hard against his side. His dark face brooded over her with a kind of desperate fondness. “You have upset the apple–cart!” he murmured.
I now had my first good look at her. About twenty years old I should say, fair and sensitive as one of Rossetti's models, but with a power of emotion that was absent in those lackadaisical misses. She was wearing an expensively simple one–piece dress of blue serge with odd narrow bands of greed suede. Her thin hands spoke a language of their own. She addressed Barron indignantly.
“He's not a criminal! Are you blind! Can't you see it for yourself?”
“I've seen 'em of all kinds,” answered the Inspector with a hard smile. “And when a man breaks into a house in the middle of the night. ...”
“He did it for me!” the girl cried. “To save me and somebody who is dear to me. Is that the act of a criminal?�
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“Well, tell us all about it, Miss,” said Barron cajolingly.
“Not a word, Nora!” cried the young man sharply. “I forbid it.”
Barron flushed angrily. “You'd better let her tell the truth,” he growled. “We'll find it out anyhow. The truth never hurt anybody.”
“Neither did keeping your mouth shut!” retorted the young man.
Jackman, needless to say, was terribly excited by this scene. He pulled nervously at his lower lip, and his bleary eyes kept darting from one to another of the pair. He could make nothing of it. Finally he could hold his tongue no longer.
Detective Duos Page 16