“You are very sure of that, Duddy, aren’t you?” said the girl, wistfully.
He glowered at her; he was resolution itself.
“I am,” he said. “And I have every reason to be. Listen: A picture has been stolen, and a man has been murdered. What are the chances, do you suppose, that they were two separate and unrelated crimes?”
“Oh, no!” said Alma. “They couldn’t be.”
“The odds are about a million to one against it! Very well, then! We are agreed that the same person committed both crimes. But is it reasonable to suppose his original intent was to kill Custis and that he stole the painting as a sort of afterthought?”
“No,” said Alma. “No, Duddy, I do not think that.”
“Doesn’t it look,” said Duddington, “that the original intention was to steal the Hals; that it was the first and only object; and that Custis came accidentally upon the thief, and his death resulted?”
He could reconstruct the scene, he said. It was quite plain to him. He could see the thief in the main picture gallery, cutting the canvas along the line of the frame. Or he had already cut it away and was rolling it up. Or he had the roll under his arm and was making away with it. And then Custis chanced upon him.
“It must have been a sudden chance,” said Duddington, “Because if Custis’d had time to do so he’d given an alarm. He’d have called to Slade at the front door.”
“Duddy,” said Alma, in a low voice, “suppose it was Slade who killed him?”
“Well, Inspector Lynch has brought out certain facts against Slade, to be sure; but they all point to murder as the original intent. Lynch has said that robbery has often been faked in order to throw the authorities off the track; but a person resourceful enough to turn a trick like that in an emergency would be a criminal of a deal of experience and not a little intelligence. And I don’t think Slade has much of either.”
Duddington moved about the office; he snapped his fingers, he shook his head, he thrust out his chin. The picture! He felt sure he was right about that. The picture was the beginning of it all. It was the beginning for the criminal, and it must be the beginning for himself.
“The person who finds the painting, Alma,” he said, “will be within hand’s reach of the criminal. And it’s still in the museum. It must be. It couldn’t have been smuggled out.”
“But, Duddy,” said Alma, “if the matter was planned, the criminal must have seen the difficulty of removing the picture. Knowing he would not be able to take it away, why should he risk his life in the attempt?”
Duddington regarded her steadfastly.
“That’s a good question, Alma. And it’s a hard one to answer. I know that, for I’ve been asking it of myself for the last half hour. It may be the thief’s plan was to hide the painting somewhere in the building and then wait for a favorable opportunity for making away with it. That seems to be the inspector’s idea; for his men are searching through the upstairs region at this minute.”
Duddington stood looking about the office. The picture had been on the first floor. The murder had been done on the first floor. And it seemed to him the hiding place would be there, also. It would be more ready of access at a critical moment, a thing which anyone laying a deliberate plan would not overlook.
“There are no closets in any of the exhibition rooms,” said Duddington; “no crevices or old ventilators, panels or loose boards. Everything is smooth and new and in plain view. The second floor is the same. The basement would be the only reasonable place to secrete anything, but there is no way of getting into the basement except from the outside.”
“The place is very new, Duddy,” said the girl. “It would seem impossible to hide anything in it.”
“Let’s wait a bit and see, though,” said the fat young man. “We mustn’t miss anything; we’ll only have this one chance, you know, Alma.” He went into the outer office, opened the door, and looked into the corridor. “Custis was killed near the foot of the steps,” he said, “and that is about two dozen feet from the office door. The painting hung in the main gallery; and here is a door,” indicating it, “leading into that gallery. This office was quite handy to either spot, Alma.” He closed the door to the corridor. “And this office, unlike the exhibition rooms, has a great many places where a thing might be hidden.”
The girl drew in a deep breath, and her eyes went from side to side.
“But Mona was here,” she said.
“Mona left about five-thirty. There is a blank of an hour after that.”
“But, Duddy,” said Alma, “wasn’t Mr. Custis in the office?”
“The last time he was seen alive was in the main gallery,” said Duddington. “He may have returned to the office afterward, but we have no evidence that he did.”
“But the criminal would not be able to count upon his absence,” said Alma.
“No,” said Duddington. “You are quite right there. But if the office has been used, or not used, as a place to secrete the picture will be a thing easily learned. Here we are, and here it is. Let’s look around.”
There was a closet in the outer office, but it was filled with stationery and matters having to do with the work of the place. Drawers were opened, rugs were turned up. They did the same for the inner office; everything possible was opened and searched through; desks, tables. Duddington hunted through a bookcase, then drew it from the wall to make sure nothing was behind it. Upon Custis’s desk were some opened letters; some penciled memoranda; there was a printed announcement of a picture sale; one item was marked; an old Spanish picture that was to be put up at auction—The Death of St. John, the Divine.
“Yes, if the building was only an old one with paneled walls and fireplaces and doors and corridors opening into and leading hither and yon,” said the fat young man, “a person could carry on a search with some enthusiasm.” He sounded the desks for secret backs and looked for secret drawers. He did the same for the bookcase and the filing cabinets. “But it’s all nonsense,” said Duddington. “These things are standard makes; no mysteries are possible where they’re concerned.”
But he went over the inner office again and again; and he revisited the outer office also. But nothing resulted. Then he opened the door and went into the storeroom, Alma following him.
XVI
“HERE,” said Duddington, as he turned on the lights and they stood looking about, “is a promising place. There is a good deal of space and much litter: a person meaning to hide anything is always attracted by clutter and disorder; there are so many things to attract the mind from a true direction, he calculates the chances of discovery are greatly lessened.”
There were many frames and canvases leaning against the walls. One by one Duddington handled them; he pulled out packing cases and examined them inside and out. There were two large closets; he opened both and hunted through them; and when at last he’d searched everything and everywhere, he stood looking at Alma rather forlornly.
“It doesn’t seem to be here,” he said. “If it is, that fellow, whoever he may be, is remarkably cunning.” “Duddy,” said Alma, suddenly frightened as she realized what his words meant, “we must not stop. We must find it. We mustn’t let them take Billy away!”
“All right, all right,” said the fat young man, hastily. “We’re not beaten yet, Alma. Don’t think we are. We’ve agreed the picture is somewhere about. We’ll get it. But, you see, this crook apparently planned with a good deal of care. He reasoned things out. And that’s what we must do. I’ve been taking the matter too lightly. Just to go rummaging around is not enough. We’ve got to match this fellow, cunning for cunning.”
He drew his great bulk up until he towered; he gestured and stepped about.
“Yes; this whole matter must have been reasoned out before the attempt was made, and we must follow the same method if we hope to get anywhere.” In moving about he felt some hard, gritty particles under his feet; he shuddered and moved to another spot. “I seem to be letting my nerves run loo
se,” he said. “A little bit of grit under my foot annoys me.” More grating of particles followed and he laughed. “I’ll be giving an exhibition of temperament in a few minutes,” he said. “Let’s go into the office and sit down. What we really need just now is a quiet, earnest talk.”
Alma took one of the chairs in the outer office; Duddington turned on the water at the washstand and began to remove the grime from his hands.
“We’ve had no luck,” said he, “but, nevertheless, I’ve not lost faith in this immediate vicinity as the hiding place of the picture. It’s here, Alma, just as sure as I’m speaking to you; I don’t see how it can be anywhere else.” He put his hands under the running water and washed the soap from them; then he took up a paper towel and was drying his hands and still talking when Alma said:
“You’ve let the water run, Duddy. It’s overflowing. Please turn it off.”
He went to the wash stand and reached into the bowl to remove the plug. “Hello,” he said, “that’s queer. There is no plug in it, but the vent’s stopped, somehow.” He picked at it with one finger. “Some solid kind of a substance is lodged in the throat of the pipe,” he said. Alma came to see what he was doing. “There it goes!” The water suddenly ran out of the bowl with a rush, and he stood examining a bit of white chalk-like material which he held in his hand.
“What is it?” said the girl.
“Looks like plaster-of-paris,” said Duddington. “What a silly thing for anyone to put into a wash bowl; they might have known it would stop the pipe after it set.” He took another towel and was drying his hands once more: then he stopped, a perplexed look upon his face. “I say,” he said to Alma, “that’s peculiar.”
“What is?” she said.
“Why, the plaster in the vent pipe. It must have gotten there in the last few hours.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I washed my hands in that bowl just before I left late this afternoon, and it was quite clear then.” He looked at Alma and saw the expression upon her face, and smiled. “All right; I see what you’re thinking. And I guess you’re right. Just now I ought to have my mind on the picture and the murder instead of on the museum’s plumbing. But, Alma,” he said reassuringly, “never fear. It won’t be long before we begin to show something.”
He followed her back into the inner office. She stood by the desk; he moved about, frowning earnestly.
“I’ve read of people thinking and planning so intently that they left the color of their thoughts behind them in the place they worked in. An almost palpable thing. Do you see what I mean? People who stood in the rooms after they’d gone felt it; it pressed upon their consciousness.” Duddington went to the door of the storeroom and looked in; the lights were still on, and the place was dusty and still. He stood for some time, his head lowered, his hands held behind him.
“Surely, Duddy,” said Alma, “you don’t expect anything of that sort?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Of course not. Anything we get we’ll have to work for. But, do you know, this room draws me; it keeps beckoning me, as it were. I suppose that’s because it’s so promising a place for what the thief had in mind, and I keep thinking of it,” He went into the storeroom, she following him with her eyes. Near the silver figure of Diana she heard a crisp little sound under his feet and saw him gesture, annoyed.
“What is that stuff?” he said; “it seems to be scattered around hereabouts. They are hard little particles that crush when I step on them.”
She saw him look at the floor, turn away, and then turn back, as though a thought had just come to him. He stood for a moment looking down, then he steadied himself with a hand against the wall while he lifted his foot and examined the sole of his shoe.
“What is it, Duddy?” asked the girl.
“Small bits of plaster,” he said, “Plaster—same as was in the vent pipe of the washstand.” He came into the office, perplexed, shaking his head. She spoke to him, but he was not listening. “That’s dashed funny,” he said.
There was a crumpled paper on the floor near the wash stand; he went out and picked it up. It was thick with a white dust.
“A wrapper,” he said. “It held a dry, white substance.” He looked at Alma. “A good deal like plaster.”
She went to him and put her hand on his arm, anxiously.
“Duddy,” she said, “what do you think it means?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Only, somehow, it seems queer. It’s like a thing that shouldn’t be.” He put the paper upon a table and stood looking at it for a moment; then as though upon a sudden impulse, he went to the door opening into the corridor, opened it, and looked out. Edwards was conversing with Marsh and several policemen some distance away, and Duddington called to him. The man entered the office a few moments later. “Edwards,” said the fat young man to him, “I haven’t heard of any work, repairs or anything like that, being done in the building recently.”
Edwards looked at him, a worried expression in his eyes.
“There hasn’t been any for a long time.”
“Haven’t you had masons here doing some work?”
“No,” said the watchman.
“Nor plumbers? Nor bricklayers? Wasn’t there someone doing some sort of work this afternoon in the museum? Say in the office, here—or in the storeroom?”
“Not anybody.”
The man left the office; Duddington went to the washstand and picked at some small remnants that still clung in the vent. He crumbled a bit of it in his fingers; then he turned and took the piece of wrapping paper and studied it for some minutes.
“Duddington,” said the girl, “what is it?” And as he shook his head, she said: “But there must be something.”
“No. Not yet,” he said. “I’m only trying to untangle what I have in my mind.”
“What is that?” asked Alma.
“Why, I can’t say,” said Duddington. “The fact is just now, I don’t know, myself.”
He went into the storeroom once more. The grit under foot crackled as he moved about.
“I was in this room with Haviz and Custis this afternoon,” he said. “We were looking at this silver figure, here.”
“A moon goddess,” said Alma from the doorway. “The Greek, Artemis.” She noticed Duddington, suddenly still before the statue, his round face full of light. “Duddy,” she said, “you stand there as though you were praying to Diana.”
“There is an impulse to thankfulness in most of us, I think, when we are suddenly fortunate,” said the fat young man.
She stood gazing at him for a moment, and then said anxiously:
“Is there something now that makes you think you are fortunate?”
“Wait,” he said. “I’m not sure.”
He sat upon the edge of a work bench, his eyes still upon the silver figure. The bench was cluttered with picture frames and bits of moulding, tools, and other things. Age always suggested quietness to Duddington and this figure of Diana, though it was said to be a fraud, had peace in all its lines. Old temples, old sculpture, any antique memorial made the same impression upon him; it was like a blood memory, a thing of his flesh and bone. And yet those ancient days were unquiet; they were turbulent, and thick with blows and bitterness; they were days of subterfuge, villainy. He fumbled with a small bronze bust that stood upon the bench, but his eyes were still upon the Diana. The worship of the Moon Goddess was an ancient rite. He recalled the chronicle of how the Apostles Paul and Barnabas journeyed in that olden time to Ephesus, where Diana had her great temple. They preached mightily; those two robust God-inspired men stirred the hearts of thousands to a new, warm, human religion. The great temple began to be deserted. And, in consequence, the sales of Diana’s images, made by the silversmiths of the city, fell away to almost nothing. The smiths grew angry at the hurt being done their trade by these two strangers, and thought of ways by which their influence might be brought to an end.
Duddington smiled. That was such a modern touch.
No word had been said in protest until business was interfered with; and then there was indignation and great disquiet! In that crisis Demetrius appeared. Cunning old Demetrius! He was said to be an artificer himself, but Duddington had always doubted this. More than likely he was an agent, an organizer. At any rate, he spoke a word here and a phrase there; he cozened the people, and led them, and by and by had them filling Ephesus with their protests. Riots broke out; the mobs filled the streets crying: “Great is Diana of the Ephesians!”
A clever old rascal! His every move meant something; his every act was secret and full of purpose. Duddington absently picked up the bust, turning it over and over in his hands. Yes, Demetrius was clever. Secret. Full of purpose. Most men, even the rascals, are easily fathomed. But there are some whose deviousness is appalling, whose dark windings frighten the heart. He nodded his head over this, frowning; and his mind drifted away across a world filled with evil deeds. But the vast craft and filthy intent soon repelled him; his thoughts returned, seeking comfort. Whoever had made this small bronze was a man of heart and mind, a just man: Duddington’s finger tips told him this as they moved about its surface. A just, gentle mind. Yes, the lines said this to him, though he did not look at them, his gaze being still upon the silver Diana. Then, suddenly, he came out of the semi-dream he’d been in; for his fingers had left the hard, smooth surface of the bronze—they touched a softer, rougher thing. He looked at the bust; he was holding it bottom up in his hands. And the bottom was weighted with a filling of plaster.
Duddington arose from the work bench. He looked toward the office door, but Alma was not there; then he heard her voice; also the voices of Lynch and Billy Gregory. Evidently the two had returned to the outer office while he sat thinking, and she’d gone out to them.
The Museum Murder Page 12