“You may be very sure of that,” said Duddington gravely. “And,” he said, “it may not be necessary to tell me everything; some of it may already be known to me.”
The great eyes, deep in the dark hollows, regarded him, frightened, pitiful; the slim, small body seemed to shrink to a shadow; her hands fluttered about her heart.
“You need not tell me,” went on Duddington, “about the promise you made your sister some time ago. Yes, I know about it—and no, she did not tell me. She’d not do that, you know. You made a promise some time ago, a promise concerning yourself. It was about a habit you’d gotten into. You solemnly resolved to do as Alma desired you to do. But you have broken your word.”
“Yes,” said the girl, her eyes still fixed upon him. “I have broken my word.”
She was shaken and white. Her face twitched. Suddenly she sprang up; but he caught her and put her back upon the lounge. He told her to be quiet; she must not cry out and attract attention to herself. He held her hands tightly and spoke in a low, steady voice. In the upper drawer of her desk, on the left-hand side, he’d seen a small bottle. No, it was not there now; he’d seen to that; he had it. He’d been afraid the police would find it. He’d been afraid of that, for it was the sort of thing a most calamitous result might be built upon.
“I told Alma I’d never take it again,” said Mona in a whispering voice. “I said it over and over again, and I meant to make it good. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t. Something happened. There was a thing happened I hadn’t thought of.”
He knew that, too, he said. But, wait, now! She must not be too much alarmed; she must not permit anything to shake her so. It was quite all right. He knew what happened. Sheerness spoke to her. Now! now! Duddington’s big hands held her tightly. She must be quiet. Had he not said to her there were some things she’d not have to tell him?—that some of them he might already know? Yes, Sheerness had spoken to her. About Alma. Was that not so?
There was a pause; long shudders ran through the girl’s body. Then she spoke:
“I had been ill and was recovered; but Alma would not hear of me taking up my work again as Mr. Sheerness’s secretary; she said it was too hard; that I wasn’t strong enough for it. I felt desperate and wretched, for all the things I’d got for her had been let go: her schooling, her studio, her opportunities to go abroad. She’d taken employment, and I saw her day after day, working over a drawing board, doing commercial things, wasting her beautiful talent to pay for our lodging and food.
“When I was well enough I went to Mr. Sheerness. It was of an afternoon, and he sat at one of his library windows. He was very attentive, listening to all I said; and he told me he was sorry I had to give up my work with him. I did not say why I was giving it up—that is, not more than that I was not able to go on with it. But while I talked with him I noticed a painting upon a small stand; it stood leaning against the corner of a bookcase not far from him. It had been placed that way so the light would fall properly upon it; he’d been looking at it before I came in. And then I saw it was one of Alma’s pictures! You know the one, Mr. Chalmers—she did it in France: a group of cattle on a windswept beach, and with the sea foaming up on the sand?”
“He sat with the light on it—and he’d been looking at it before you came in?” Duddington gazed at her, with his head nodding. “The damned swine!”
“I had risen to go,” said Mona, “when I mentioned the picture. He said he’d only just bought it. He’d been studying it; and he told me the artist was one of fine genius. Then I said it was Alma’s work, my sister’s,” said Mona. “He was surprised. He’d known my sister was a painter, but he hadn’t associated the picture with her. My giving up my work was too bad, he said; he’d heard I helped Alma, and it would be a hardship, now my assistance was withdrawn. He stood studying the picture; there was a frown on his face. I was standing by the door, my hand upon the knob, when he asked me if I did not understand there were certain responsibilities the relatives and friends of talented persons were expected to assume.”
“No!” said Duddington, appalled. “Good God, no! He didn’t say that!”
“I replied that I did know it,” said Mona, “that I knew it bitterly and well, and that I’d all but wrecked my health trying to live up to the knowledge. He waited for some time, never taking his eyes from the picture; and then he said, as I was unable to go on with his work, he’d do what he could to get me employment elsewhere that would not tax me so heavily. He knew of a position in an art museum; it was possible he could procure that for me. I was immensely grateful and told him so, but he said for me to wait—perhaps in a few minutes I would not feel so. He seemed cold and hard, not at all like a man about to do a friendly or kindly thing. He said he was a man of business, and as such was accustomed to bargaining; no business man, as he told me, ever did anything that did not benefit him in some way; it was his belief no business man ever forgot his own interest for a moment, and he wanted to make that quite plain to me before he stated what he called his proposition.”
“Proposition!” said Duddington, swaying his great bulk in the chair. “But, of course. The wild hog of the thicket! Oh, my God!”
“He’d heard Alma was a student. There was no doubt that she had remarkable talent. The picture before him proved that. He supposed I had saved no money. I said I had not; all I’d earned had gone to pay our living expenses. He inquired what Alma would do if my salary stopped. I said she’d already secured employment. He thought her giving up her studies was dangerous. It might mean ruin. As that was my one fear, I began to cry. He said many a promising talent had been destroyed that way.”
Duddington shut his great fists, and silently cursed Sheerness. And Mona went on: He’d told her he had it in his mind to send Alma abroad, not for a few months, but for some years. She could finish her studies that way. He had it in his power to surround her with patronage; she’d need publicity, and she should have it; her position as an artist should be made secure.
“It’s monstrous!” said Duddington. “The whole thing is really beyond parallel. What came next? He said in return for all these things he desired your support, didn’t he? He said he wanted your aid in righting a wrong that had been done him? I know the beast. That’s the way he’d put it.” Duddington leaned toward Mona. “He asked you to steal the Hals!” He sensed the cry upon her lips, and again he caught hold of her. “Listen to me! Don’t be frightened. I know about that. I know you took it; I know where it is hidden. No, no! Not the police. No one but myself. So don’t be afraid.”
He arranged the pillows at her back and sat looking at her with steadfast eyes while she talked. It wasn’t until after she’d been taken into the museum as Custis’s secretary, and to keep the books, that Sheerness spoke to her again. He telephoned her one day, and she went to his office. He told her of the plan he had: of the statue of Diana, of what she must do with the plaster-of-paris. She’d been full of fear; in the next week she’d been tempted a dozen times to go to him and refuse. But the thought of Alma prevented her. She’d go through with it. She must. Because of her weakness Alma’s whole life might be spoiled. And then she went back to the drug. She had to; she’d never be able to keep up without it. She knew she was breaking her word to Alma; but it would not be for long; she’d stop the stuff again when the crisis was passed. But to go on now she must have its help. It made her careless of danger; things became dim to her after she’d taken it; she did not see anything plainly, and she had no fear. Without the drug she’d pass through long periods of dread; she’d sit trembling; her heart would die away in her breast. But let her take a few drops and she’d be all right; she’d be resolute; nothing could prevent her carrying out what she desired to do.
Mr. Sheerness had set no time for the robbery; when Custis rejected the statue, that would be the night. And so she’d waited; and when the time finally came, she made ready. Alma visited her. That gave her strength. She was doing it for Alma, and Alma kissed her before she’d gone away. It was afte
r Mr. Haviz had gone that Mona took the drug. She knew the time was at hand; she was afraid she’d break down, and so she took more than usual. No one was in the office, all was quiet. And she had a feeling that everything was far away, that she was waiting, somewhere in space, for the all-important moment. She went into the storeroom, lowered the figure of Diana to the floor and broke a small hole in the plaster at the bottom. This was not hard to do, for at that spot it had been set in very lightly.
She stood there for some time in a dull kind of way, the feeling of aloofness strong upon her. Then she remembered Custis. He was still in the building. He was somewhere about, and she was afraid of him. He might return at any moment. He was her enemy. That was fixed in her mind. He was her deadly enemy and was lurking somewhere to prevent her carrying out the thing she desired to do. Also he was Alma’s enemy. She was sure of that. He hated Alma; he wanted to destroy her wonderful future. And so he was lurking somewhere in the quiet of the museum. And he was watching.
And she’d laughed. She remembered doing so, and she remembered the sound of it had seemed a long way off. Then a great feeling of safety came into her mind. She was deeply secure. Custis could not harm her; no one could; the drug had placed her far beyond the reach of everyone and everything. And then she’d gone into the outer office. She had a small knife upon her desk, but a heavier one lay upon a table, and she took it up; and opening the door into the main picture gallery, she went in. She cut the canvas carefully and rolled it up. While she was doing so, someone called to her; a voice, as though from the very depths of the world, spoke. It was a warning voice and filled with fear. It was Custis’s voice—Custis, who hated Alma, and who desired to ruin her future. But Mona would not listen. She smiled to herself, in her security; no one could harm her; she was too far away.
Then she’d gone into the storeroom. She’d hidden the picture in the statue; she’d stuffed a newspaper into the aperture at its base, wet the plaster, and applied it. Then she’d washed her hands and prepared to go home. She did this in a sort of daze; and there were other things she must do; things she must do carefully. She must say good-night to the watchman at the door as she always said it. She had thought it all out. No one must notice anything different about her. And then, when she reached the corridor, she saw Custis.
“No!” said Duddington, his heart suddenly weakening. “No!”
She saw Custis. And he spoke to her. As he spoke he moved toward her, and she was more afraid of him than ever before. In his presence her sense of security was suddenly gone. He came toward her, slowly; he seemed dim and distorted; his eyes were very large, and he threatened her. What he said she did not know, but he reached out to grasp her. He looked horrible. Her heart grew cold.
“Then I thought of the dagger,” said Mona, livid, her hands holding to Duddington’s arm. “I thought of the dagger! I remember that very well. I thought of its keenness, its long thin point, I had kept it with me for protection. He grasped me; I could see his bulging eyes. It was as though fear of him was killing me!”
“But you did not stab him!” said Duddington, in horror.
“I do not know,” said Mona. “I do not know. The only thing which is clear after that moment is that I spoke to the watchman at the door. I said good-night to him, very composedly, as I was passing on my way out.”
XXIV
DUDDINGTON, a few minutes later, left Mona in charge of her sister; and he spoke to Billy Gregory in the corridor.
“She’ll do pretty well, I think,” he said. “She’s worried, and she wanted to talk a little.”
“What did she say?” asked Billy.
“Oh, she talked about the case and what the police were doing. I suppose, as I’ve been listening to it all, she thought I had inside information.”
“My heart’s shaking for Mona,” said the young painter. And then in a lower tone: “If it ever reaches the police about the drug and the picture, she’ll never pull away from the killing. She hasn’t the strength to stand it, no matter how innocent she might be.”
“It’s our job to keep the police away from her until we’ve had time to do something,” said Duddington. “And I want to say to you, Bill, the way you are taking the thing on yourself and saying nothing is mighty fine. I’m proud of you.”
“Oh, it’s not much,” said Billy. “Not really. Because, you know, they had me in mind, anyhow; so I can ride right along with them and do myself no harm. I’m not afraid of the thing, Duddy; I’m not in it. But Mona is.”
“Yes,” said Duddington, “you’re right. She’s in it. But, listen, Bill: she’s not in it alone. Where she is, Sheerness is.” He stood thinking for a moment. “I want to see that party,” he said. “I wonder if there’s any way I could get him to return here tonight?”
“He hasn’t gone away,” said Billy. “He’s still here. You’ll find him upstairs, sitting by one of the front windows, if you want him.”
In a few minutes Duddington was making his way toward the stairway; there were two policemen on guard at the office door; and he saw that the body of Custis had been removed by the medical examiner’s people. The office door opened, and Moore, looking gloomy and displeased, came out.
“How’s the hunt progressing?” said Duddington. “Anything new?”
“Not a thing,” said the man. “For the time being I think we’re licked. The picture couldn’t have been taken away, and yet it’s not here. We’ve searched everywhere; we’ve even taken some of the furniture apart in the office. Between you and me,” in a lowered tone, “I don’t think the inspector knows what to do next. I’m sure I don’t.”
“You’re through, then?” said Duddington, more ease in his voice than there had been for some time, “You don’t think it’s much use to go on?”
But Moore’s eyes snapped.
“Listen,” he said; “the police always go on. If we are stuck, it’s only about the picture. Understand? About who killed the old man is different. We can pick out of several, there. And our favorite pick is still young Gregory.”
“Has Lynch spoken to Marsh again?”
“Not yet. We’re saving that baby. And this man Haviz, too. Both of those people know more than they’ve told; and maybe they think,” derisively, “they are going to get away with it that way! Maybe they think the easy way they’ve been treated here is all we’ve got. Well, wait till we get them to headquarters and start giving them the works. They’ll speak out then, believe me.”
Duddington went upstairs. The lights were on full, the whole place was in disorder, showing the passage of the police in their search for the missing masterpiece. Entering the great room at the front, the fat young man saw Sheerness sitting at an open window; the man was motionless, upright, staring into the summer night. Duddington approached; he stood leaning against the end of a row of cases and wiped his face with a large white handkerchief.
“The police seem to have been working all around you,” said Duddington, as he quietly viewed the confusion of the room. Sheerness made no reply, his jaw jutted more than before; his eyes, as they turned upon Duddington, were cold and contemptuous. “But,” continued the fat young man, “I dare say you were not bothered. They fumble things so, and maul them about, and are so generally stupid, the best way is to pay no attention.”
He put the large white handkerchief away and lighted a cigarette.
“I don’t know if they told you, or if you made any inquiries,” he said; “but the picture called The Syndic’s Daughter has been missed. That’s what they were searching for.”
“So I’ve been told,” said Sheerness.
“And not having found it here,” said Duddington, “they began searching the rooms downstairs. Also the offices and storeroom.” He observed the man closely, but there was no movement, no change of expression. “I spoke to Moore just before I came up here. He’s the short man, a precinct detective, or something. He said they’ve had no luck on the lower floor, either. I suppose they’ve mauled and fumbled down there, too. I
think,” approvingly, “you are quite right not to be annoyed by them; for if a man has seen to it that everything has been carefully done, he need not worry. From care of that sort, I’d say, comes the gift of ease. A sort of reward one might say.”
Sheerness looked at him.
“You are something of a philosopher, it seems. I had not noticed that trait in you before.”
“I don’t wonder at that,” said Duddington, “because it’s quite possible I didn’t have it before tonight. There’s been a number of things started with me since sundown; so many that I won’t be surprised if I find myself looking back on the last few hours all the rest of my life.”
“I dare say.” Sheerness settled back in his chair, steady, motionless, rigid of jaw. Duddington, looking at him, once more saw the boar, glowering in the thicket; the fierce hog, waiting, watching, ready to leap up.
“But there are others who’ll feel the doings of the night more keenly than I will,” said Duddington. “They are those who’ll go to headquarters with the police after the questioning here is over; and, more than that, in another month they may go to the electric chair.” There was a pause; Duddington blew out a long stream of smoke. “I found the heroin bottle in Miss Rogers’ desk drawer,” he said. “And I put it in my pocket. It wouldn’t have done for the police to come upon it.”
“I’m afraid,” said Sheerness, “I do not understand.”
With a sudden jerk Duddington tossed the cigarette out of the window.
“Listen!” he said: “don’t do that. You know she took dope; if there hadn’t been something like that you’d never have proposed this thing to her.”
Sheerness arose; he stood facing Duddington, one powerful hand holding to the back of his chair.
“Suppose you speak plainly,” he said.
“Don’t worry; I will,” said Duddington. “As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t miss telling you what I’m going to tell you for a great deal.” He measured the man with quiet precision. “Mr. Sheerness,” he said, “you are one who has taken a seat so far in advance of your fellow citizens that it’s always looked as though even the law would find it hard to reach you. You are looked upon as a big man. And yet this thing you arranged for tonight was pretty small.”
The Museum Murder Page 17