The Museum Murder

by MacIntyre, John T. ;

  He closed the door and turned on more lights. He looked at the bust, his eyes filled with surmise, his cheeks distended. Ballasted with plaster! Why, to be sure. All things of that kind were. They were hollow and had no great weight, and ballast of some sort was needed to hold them upright. They were all like that. He put the bronze piece upon the bench and stood looking at the statue. All such things were hollow! The Diana, too, was so. It must be; if it were solid the weight of silver would be enormous. It, too, must be weighted at its base.

  Plaster! Duddington stepped about. The particles crushed under his feet as before. He moved away and ceased to feel them; he returned to the silver figure and there they were again! The floor was free of them except for a small space at the goddess’s feet.

  “Bits of plaster of Paris on the floor and around the figure; quite close around it. Bits of plaster in the wash bowl, as though someone had thrown a surplus of it into the stand with the idea of getting rid of it. A crumpled sheet of wrapping paper, obviously having held dry plaster of Paris. And the bits on the floor and in the washstand were not there a little before five this afternoon.”

  Duddington mopped his face and neck. He was perspiring vastly; he pulled back his sleeves; he fanned himself with his hat. Things were crowding in and out of his mind in a most amazing fashion. He strove to control them. He desired to begin at the beginning: that was always the best way. The very beginning. A picture had been stolen: that was first. It was a picture Sheerness had desired, a picture he always felt he’d been cheated out of, a picture, Duddington knew, in spite of all the forgiving and forgetting apparently done since, Sheerness continued to desire. A picture which it hurt his soul to see Custis in possession of. Very well! All right. And now here was a statue. A silver statue of Diana. It had been sent to the museum by Sheerness. It was a fake. It was to be returned. Sheerness had known it was a fake. Duddington nodded over that emphatically. He knew it well enough. The man’s knowledge of art things was limited, to be sure, but he knew enough for that. And knowing the thing was false he knew it would be returned. Long acquaintance with Custis must have told him the man would never miss a chance like that.

  Quite so! Then suppose, things being as they were, the picture Sheerness so envied the museum was cut from its frame and rolled into a cylinder. Suppose the statue of Diana was tipped over, the plaster at its base broken through, the picture inserted, the broken place mended with plaster of Paris, a substance which sets almost immediately!

  “And with the Diana returned,” said Duddington, “Sheerness would have the painting; the Gregory Museum would have lost the gem of its collection; he would have had his revenge.”

  Lynch and Billy and Alma had entered the inner office; Duddington heard their voices. At any moment now someone might open the door. With a quick move he tipped the figure of Diana over and looked at its base. In the soiled base there was a broad patch of clean fresh white!

  “Found!” said the fat young man. “Found, by George!”

  And then he righted the figure, rubbed his hands with his handkerchief, and went into the office.

  XVII

  BILLY GREGORY looked rather white a few minutes later when he, with Alma and Duddington Pell Chalmers, left the office and walked down the corridor toward the alcove where Mona was waiting.

  “He looks terribly worn, don’t you think so?” said Alma to Duddington. She put her arm through Billy’s. “The police are cruel,” she said; “they have no right to use you this way. You have told them all you know. What more could they expect?”

  Billy smiled, but rather faintly.

  “I think I caught a new note in the inspector’s voice,” he said to Duddington. “A quite positive one. He’s made up his mind pretty thoroughly in the last little while.”

  “I hope,” said Alma anxiously, “you’ve not been permitting them to lead you into saying things. You are very candid and open, Billy. And that does not do with the police. No matter how good-natured Mr. Lynch seems to be, remember, in this matter, he is against you. His desire is to twist your words into something you had not intended them to mean. The police always keep trying to fit what one person tells them to what another person has said; and that’s always dangerous.”

  Billy laughed and patted her arm.

  “You talk like someone who has had a great deal of experience with man-hunting,” he said. “But, nevertheless, what you say is true. They are dangerous, and it’s necessary to be on one’s guard.”

  They found Mona awaiting them, anxious and wide-eyed; she held Alma to her tightly and asked many questions; her face twitched and she seemed to control herself with great difficulty. They quieted her as much as possible; then, after a little, the two young men went down the long room, and as they stood by an open window Billy said:

  “I couldn’t say it where Alma could hear, but I’m under arrest, Duddy. My next move will be into a cell.” But Duddington drew at his cigarette quietly; he did not seem in the least disturbed.

  “When did they tell you that?” he said.

  “They haven’t told me. It wasn’t necessary. Their whispering, their looks at one another, were as plain as any words could be.”

  “All right,” said the fat young man; “however, don’t forget, what a person makes up his mind to do is not always what he does in the end.”

  “If they conclude to take me away to headquarters in a police car and pound me with questions all night,” said Billy, “what’s to stop them?”

  “We’ll not talk about stopping them,” said Duddington. “We’ll not even think of them. As a matter of fact, Billy, they are not very important.” Duddington smoked his cigarette calmly; his manner was unmistakable; he had the perfect ease of a man who was sure of his ground. “With all due respect to Lynch, the police here amount to little. They are miles away from the truth in this case, and every step they take makes their hunt all the more hopeless.”

  He questioned Billy about what had been said in the upper gallery; and as he listened to the young artist’s story he nodded his head. It was the expected thing. Quite like Lynch. And especially like Moore.

  “Alma was worried while you were with them,” said Duddington. “She was much confused and upset. It’s too bad she was brought here and forced to endure it all. She’ll probably be ill for days as a result. And Mona, too,” said Duddington, looking steadily at Billy. “She seems in a very bad way.”

  “Yes,” said Billy. “I’m quite disturbed about Mona. She’s never been strong, but recently her health seems to have grown worse.”

  Duddington quietly held the talk to Mona. He, too, was much concerned, he said. He was afraid she worked too hard. She should be spoken to; something should be done to make her see it was dangerous to do too much.”

  “Mona lives and works for Alma,” said Billy. “Alma and her painting mean everything to her. She’s earned the living for both for a half dozen years so Alma could study and perfect herself.”

  Mona was frail looking, Billy said, but at the same time she was one of the most resolute women he’d ever seen. No one would quite realize how strong willed she was until they knew the girl’s full history.

  “I know some of it,” said Duddington. “But not very much, I suppose.”

  The sisters came from a small town in northern New York, Billy said. Their father had been a general merchant but had left little behind him when he died. At that time Alma was fifteen and Mona about twenty. They came to New York City, Alma to finish her schooling, and Mona to go into an office. The elder sister had always been ambitious; but it was not long before she saw she desired more than life seemed likely to give her. She knew she was a plodder, with little imagination: she could follow a routine tirelessly, but could create nothing.

  But Alma had talent; her drawings had always excited interest; people had exclaimed over them and said she should go to an art school. Mona arranged this for her; and almost at once Alma’s gift leaped forward; she showed an immediate and astonishing quality; her
line was singularly free, her color fixed the imagination. Mona watched this growth as one might watch an enchantment. Not once did she feel envy; indeed, from the first, one thought had possession of her mind: her duty in the future was the safeguarding of Alma’s promise. She would work and provide what money the younger girl would need.

  Alma protested that she should have a part in their maintenance, but Mona said that would come later. In a few years, she said, Alma would be the worker. Her wonderful pictures would be known everywhere; people would be seeking her out; commissions would be pouring in! Then Mona would profit by the little help she’d given. She’d have a quiet corner in Alma’s house; sometimes she’d ride in the park in Alma’s car After all, she said, the whole matter was a speculation on her part; she would profit by it in time to come.

  “She’s a wonderful girl,” said Duddington. “She is, indeed.”

  “She saw to it that Alma had the best instruction; that her surroundings were right; that she had a studio and every opportunity. For two months each summer

  Alma went abroad where she could paint and get ideas. And all the time Mona worked.”

  “Yes,” said Duddington. “I knew about that. There’s unselfishness for you.”

  But after some years of this something happened. Knowing Mona was not really strong, Alma had been watching her, dreading a breakdown. A number of times she’d pleaded to be permitted to take some of the burdens upon herself. But Mona would not listen; to work and provide the money was her duty, she said; and she meant to do it. But, finally, Alma, watching and anxious, noticed something that filled her with alarm. She saw little mannerisms in the other girl which had only lately appeared. Odd ways. A dead white color; eyes that seemed sometimes to look at you and dream. She spoke to Billy. Yes, he’d noticed these things, too. And in a short time they knew the truth. Endless work had broken Mona’s strength; she felt she had to keep up for Alma’s sake, but it wasn’t possible without aid. And so she’d turned to drugs.

  “Yes,” said Duddington. “I’d recognized the signs some time ago; but they disappeared. I thought she’d given the thing up.”

  “She had. Alma forced her to abandon the habit; also she procured a leave of absence for her; she was sent to a sanitarium until she was well. Alma gave up her art studies, her studio, her trips to Brittany in the summer. She got work from advertising agencies and set about earning the living for both.”

  “When Mona recovered, she did not return to her usual work?” asked Duddington.

  “No,” said Billy. “She was employed as secretary by Sheerness at the time of her breakdown; but she didn’t return to him, for Alma decided the work there was too burdensome. I’m not given to praising Sheerness,” said Billy, “for I do not care anymore for him than you do. But he did show consideration at that time; for it was he who recommended her for the position here with Custis.”

  “Yes,” said Duddington. He nodded and drew at his cigarette. “I recall that quite well, for the matter was brought to my attention as trustee—in Custis’s usual perfunctory way.” There was a pause, and then Duddington added: “You say Alma made Mona promise to abandon the drug habit. But promises are not always kept.”

  Billy’s eyes had a harassed look.

  “Of late I have not felt right about Mona,” he said.

  “She hasn’t kept the promise,” said Duddington. Then, as he noted Billy’s look upon him, he added. “Her color and manner have told me something; but I’ve not depended upon that. While you and Alma were talking with Lynch awhile ago in the inner office, I opened Mona’s desk and found this.” He showed a small bottle, about half full. “Heroin,” he said.

  “I was afraid of it,” said Billy. “My God, what will Alma say!” He covered his face with his hands; Duddington stood looking at him.

  “It’s plain enough,” said the fat young man, “that you’ve had quite a drubbing tonight. And I suppose,” quietly, “that matter, as you came down the stairs after closing time, did not prepare you any too well for it.”

  Billy took his hands from his face; his expression was fixed, his eyes suddenly cold.

  “What do you mean by that?” he said.

  “Why, the thing Slade, the watchman, told Moore. Now, wait,” as Billy was about to speak, “I know what you’re going to say, but before you say it, let’s talk. When Inspector Lynch asked you about this matter, you said it never happened. And, as I suppose you noticed, he didn’t believe you. You haven’t told me it didn’t happen, Bill, but you would if you had to. I can see that. And I’ll be frank with you: I wouldn’t believe you, either. But I’m not going to do as he did. I’m not going to ask you what happened at about five-twenty o’clock on the stairs as you came down from the second floor. I’m going to tell you.”

  Their backs were turned, but they could hear a steady sobbing at the other end of the room, and they could hear Alma speaking soothingly.

  “You realized you’d spent more time upstairs than you’d thought,” said Duddington. “It was getting late, and you started down the staircase. The place was quiet; small sounds could be plainly heard; your footsteps rang out sharply. You were part way down when you stopped suddenly. I could go into the corridor now and point out the very spot to you; it is where the stairs turn, there is a view through the door of the main picture gallery; I’ve stopped there more than once, for The Syndic’s Daughter was to be seen from that turn with a rather fine lighting.” Duddington looked at the young artist, but Billy’s face was still set, his eyes were cold and steady. “Yes, you stopped there,” said Duddington, “directly at that turn; the door of the gallery was partly open, and you saw something inside that caught your attention. It was Mona Rogers; she had the old Spanish knife in her hand; she had drawn the curtains from the Hals painting and was cutting the canvas from the frame.”

  “I saw nothing,” said Billy Gregory composedly; “neither Mona Rogers nor anyone else.”

  “That’s all right,” said Duddington. “It’s not my intention to try and force an admission from you, Bill; I’m merely showing you I know what happened. You saw Mona Rogers cutting the picture from the frame; indeed, she must have gotten it free already and was, perhaps, rolling the canvas up; you were startled, appalled; then you called to her in a loud whisper. She stood there, looking up at you. Again you called to her: you probably do not remember what you said, but no doubt you demanded to know in God’s name what she was about. But she made no reply; she stood blank and white, the picture in her hands. You did not know what to do. If you rushed down the stairs, took the canvas from her, and called the watchman, the thing would be irrevocable; if you went to her and tried to reason with her it would perhaps come to the same thing, for her drugged mind would resist your words. You had only a moment to consider, and you resolved to say nothing; you’d do nothing; you would permit her to carry the matter through. No doubt she had a plan; she would not be detected immediately, at least; and when she was nearer normal you’d speak to her; if need be, you’d speak to Alma. Between you you’d arrange a way to put the matter right. And, then, with that in your mind, and with your heart shaking in your breast, you went on your way downstairs and out into the street.”

  XVIII

  THERE was a long pause. Billy Gregory said nothing; he stood leaning against the window frame, looking out into the quiet street.

  “And now,” said Duddington, “let’s go back a little. Let’s return to what you said a while ago about Sheerness. You said were not inclined to praise him, nevertheless you thought he’d shown a good deal of consideration when he’d gotten Mona the situation here in the museum after she’d broken down and been unable to go on as his secretary. I’ve had Sheerness in my mind a good deal tonight; I’ve been especially thinking of him during the past half hour; and the more I think of him the more I find his possibilities taking interesting shapes.”

  Duddington said he found himself continually hovering over the sale of the painting The Syndic’s Daughter at Paris, some years bef
ore. That kept returning to him; first in one way, then in another. He saw Custis trick the great man out of the picture, and he saw Sheerness’s resulting rage at being so mishandled before the world.

  “And you know how he suddenly smothered his fury,” said Duddington. “It was like dropping a lid upon a roaring furnace. And then he forgave Custis! He showed himself to have forgotten all about his resentment toward the Gregory Museum! It was quite marvelous. And then, to top it all, he began making the institution rich gifts.”

  Did Billy remember when the first of these gifts was made? Duddington himself was not sure; but he was quite confident that when the dates were hunted up it would be found the gifts started not long after Mona Rogers came into the museum as an employee.

  Billy turned upon Duddington fiercely.

  “Do you mean to say that Sheerness——” But he did not finish the question; possibly he saw the ready answer in Duddington’s eyes.

  “Yes,” said the fat young man, “that is exactly what I mean. Sheerness’s gifts were meant to pave the way, to make ready for some final act. And that final act was given to Mona Rogers to do.”

  Did Billy ever really believe Sheerness had forgotten the matter of the Paris sale? Would a man of Sheerness’s temperament ever really forgive Custis for an affront so studied? Would he not continue to loathe the Gregory Museum and curse it in his heart? Did Billy suppose Sheerness had ever really given that picture up? Did Billy suppose Sheerness ever looked at it hanging on the wall of the main gallery and admitted it was not his property? Did Billy suppose Sheerness had ever been satisfied to permit Custis, jeering, grinning, triumphant, to remain in possession of it?

  “When Mona Rogers recovered from her illness and came to him,” said Duddington, “he had an idea all ready and shaped in his mind. There was a vacant place in the museum’s office; a secretaryship. She needed work. He would secure the place for her. She was grateful; perhaps in her weakened state she wept. She thanked him. But, wait! that was not all. There was something still to come. I can picture him,” said Duddington, “as he sat looking at her. A savage hog; a beast of the thickets! He asked about her sister. Younger than herself; an artist of talent whose training she had been paying for. Yes, he knew that. He’d been searching about for some time and knew a good deal more than that. He told her it was a tedious, long way to go about it; and in the end the result might be failure. To put an artist forward much means were needed; there must be powerful backing of many sorts. I can see him plainer than ever when he reaches that point,” said Duddington. “What if Alma were sent abroad for several years? Paris, Rome, all the art centers of Europe? What if her name and news of her work were to be constantly seen in the newspapers and art publications? What if, when she got home, a great exhibition were given of her paintings, if people of high station flocked about her, purchasing, giving commissions; that she be made the rage?