by Otto Penzler
“What happened then?”
“Nothing,” said Mrs. Batten with an air which said: “You’re not going to get anything out of me.”
“Well, where did they go in the house?”
“They came into my room. They always sat there.”
“You left them there?”
“No, I stayed. Miss Philippa always had me there when he came. So that nobody could have any excuse to talk. That shows you the kind of girl she was.”
“Very commendable. Go on.”
“There isn’t anything to tell. There we sat as cozy and friendly as could be in my little room. I don’t remember anything particular that was said. I wouldn’t tell it if I did, for it was just their own matters. At ten o’clock I brought out a little supper I had made ready. The lieutenant was always hungry—like a boy. That’s all.”
“What time did he leave?”
“At midnight.”
“That is, when Mrs. Poor got home?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get him out of the house?”
Mrs. Batten bridled again. “There wasn’t any getting out about it. He walked out of the same door that he came in. When I went to the front door to answer the bell I left the passage door open. When I switched on the light in the hall that was to tell them the burglar-alarm was off. Then Miss Philippa let the lieutenant out of the door from the back hall into the garden.”
“What was the necessity for all this secrecy, Mrs. Batten? Miss Philippa was treated like a member of the family.”
Mrs. Batten was very uncomfortable. “Well, there was no necessity for it, so to speak,” she said. “But it seems natural for young lovers to wish to meet in secret, to avoid talk and all that.”
“And a moment after the lieutenant had gone you and Mrs. Poor discovered the murder?”
“Yes, but that isn’t to say——”
“Of course it isn’t! Up to that moment you yourself had no suspicion that there had been a tragedy in the house?”
“No, indeed! No, indeed!”
“After Miss Philippa let him out she presumably returned through the passage. That would explain how she came to be so close at hand when Mrs. Poor cried out.”
“I suppose so. But there’s no harm in that.”
“Certainly not. But why was there so much lying, Mrs. Batten? Why did she tell me she had been in her room all evening? Why did you tell me you were alone in your room?”
“I couldn’t give it away that she had been entertaining him.”
“Why not, if it was all regular and above board?”
“Well—well, I said I wouldn’t tell.”
My employer became thoughtful. Mrs. Batten, watching her, began to fidget again.
Suddenly Madame Storey said: “Mrs. Batten, did Lieutenant Grantland know that Ashcomb Poor had been pestering Miss Philippa?”
“No,” answered Mrs. Batten breathlessly—but the terrified glance that accompanied it told its own tale.
“Now, Mrs. Batten, you’re fibbing again. What’s the use when your face is a mirror to your soul?”
The little body hung her head. “Yes, he knew,” she murmured. “He had heard some gossip or something. He was furious when he came. Wanted to march right into the library and tax Mr. Poor with it—to ‘knock his block off,’ he said. We had a time quieting him down. The only thing that influenced him was when Miss Philippa said the scandal would injure her.”
“But you did quiet him down?”
“Yes. We were all as happy and pleasant as possible together. Then we had our supper.”
Madame Storey fell silent for a while. Her grave and thoughtful glance seemed to inspire the little old woman with a fresh terror. Mrs. Batten struggled to her feet.
“I must go now,” she said tremulously. “I’ve been away too long. They won’t know what’s become of me.”
“Sit down, Mrs. Batten,” said Madame Storey quietly.
The other’s voice began to scale up again. “I won’t answer any more questions,” she cried. “Not another one. I can’t. I’m in no fit state. I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s not fair to keep at me, and keep at me.”
“Sit down, Mrs. Batten,” repeated the grave voice.
The old woman dropped into a chair, weeping bitterly.
“Did Miss Philippa leave the room at any time during your party?”
This was evidently the very question Mrs. Batten dreaded. “Oh, why do you plague me so?” she cried.
“You know the truth has got to come out. Better tell me than a roomful of men.”
Mrs. Batten gave up. “Yes, she did,” she wailed.
“How long was she gone?”
“I don’t know. Just a little while. Not more than ten minutes.”
“And did Lieutenant Grantland leave the room at any time?”
“Yes.”
“How long was he gone?”
“He left after her, and got back just before her.”
“Ah! What was the occasion of their leaving the room?”
“The bell rang in the pantry. I went to see what it was. The indicator showed a call from the library. It wasn’t my place to answer the bell, but I did so because I was afraid if I didn’t Mr. Poor might come back. He was at his writing-table. I thought he had been drinking a little.”
“Why did you think so?”
“His face was flushed. He had a funny look. He said: ‘Will you please ask Miss Dean if she will be good enough to help me out for a little while? I have two or three important letters to get off, and I have such a cramp in my hand I can’t write them myself.’ ”
“Did you believe this, Mrs. Batten?”
“N-no, madame, not with that look—an ugly look to a woman.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, of course I couldn’t say anything to him. I just went away as if I was going to do what he wanted. I went back to my room. I was hoping maybe he’d forget. But they saw from my face that something had happened——”
“That open countenance!” murmured Madame Storey.
“And they gave me no rest until I told them what he wanted. The lieutenant flared up again and said she should not go. Said he’d go instead and write his letters on his face. But she persuaded him not to. She knew how to manage him. She said she must go in order to avoid trouble. She said nothing could happen to her as long as the lieutenant was there in the house to protect her. So she went.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. But when she was gone he could not rest. In spite of all I could do to stop him, he went after her. I stayed there sitting in my room—helpless. Every minute I expected to hear a terrible quarrel—but all was quiet. I could scarcely stand it. I would have gone, too, to see; but my old legs were trembling so they would not carry me.”
“You heard no sound while they were gone?”
“None whatever.”
“But there were three heavy doors between you and the library.”
“The library door stood open all evening.”
“But it may have been closed then.”
Mrs. Batten wrung her hands. “It can’t be. It can’t be,” she cried. “That young pair—so proud, so beautiful, so loving——!”
“Well, murder is not always so detestable a crime,” observed Madame Storey enigmatically. “Did they come back together?”
The old woman shook her head. “He came back first.”
“How did he look?”
“Nothing out of the way. No different from when he left.”
“You mean, his face was set and hard?”
“Yes, but he always looked like that when Mr. Poor’s name was mentioned.”
“What did he say?”
“He said: ‘Where’s Philippa?’ I just shook my head. He turned around to go look for her, but met her coming in the door. They spoke to each other.”
“What did they say?”
“It was in whispers. I could not hear.”
Madame Storey fixed the little w
oman hard with her gaze. “Mrs. Batten!” she said warningly.
But this time the housekeeper was able to meet it. She spread out her hands in a gesture that was not without dignity. “I have told you everything, madame. You know as much as I do now.”
“And nothing happened after that?”
“No, madame. We sat down to our supper. Mr. Poor’s name was not mentioned again.”
“Either one of them could have done it,” remarked Madame Storey thoughtfully.
Mrs. Batten wiped away her fast-falling tears.
VI
Lieutenant Grantland was prompt to his engagement.
Why is it that aviators, or nearly all aviators, are such superb young men? I suppose the answer is obvious enough: it is the young men with the shining eyes and the springy bodies that are naturally attracted to the air. However that may be, the mere sight of an aviator is enough to take a girl’s breath away.
As for George Grantland, he was simply the handsomest young man I ever saw. When he came in, how I longed to be comely just for one second, in order to win an interested glance from him. Alas! His eyes merely skated over me. In his close-fitting uniform and marvellously turned leggings he was as graceful as Mercury. At present, whether from fatigue or anxiety—or both—his cheeks were drawn and gray. But his blue eyes were resolute, and he kept his chin up.
You can imagine Eddie’s feelings. He had brought the lieutenant upstairs all agog, and now stood just within the door, staring at his idol, and fairly panting with excitement. I was obliged to push the boy out into the hall by main strength and shut the door after him.
I took Lieutenant Grantland directly into Madame Storey’s room. Her glance brightened at the sight of him, just as any woman’s would. She had mercy on me and nodded to me to remain in the room. Mrs. Batten, I should state, was still with us. Madame Storey had put her in the back room to rest and compose herself.
“Thank you for coming so promptly,” Madame Storey said, extending her hand.
The young man blushed painfully. “I cannot shake hands,” he said bluntly.
Madame Storey’s eyebrows went up. “Why?” she asked, smiling.
“You will not want to shake hands when you know.”
Madame Storey shrugged and smiled at him with an expression I could not fathom—a quizzical expression. “Well, sit down,” she said.
He would not unbend. “Thank you, I cannot stay.”
“Well, anyway, allow me to congratulate you on your flight.”
He bowed.
Madame Storey went on: “My secretary tells me she got a message to you just as you were landing. I assume that you heard nothing during your flight of what was happening here.”
“Not a word,” he said. “But Camp Tasker was buzzing with it. I heard everything there.”
“Then we need not go into lengthy explanations,” said Madame Storey. “I need only say that Assistant District Attorney Barron has done me the honour to consult me in regard to this matter. That is where I come in. As for my secretary, she is acquainted with all the details of the case, so you need have no hesitancy in speaking before her. I would like to ask you a few questions, if you please.”
“There is no need,” he said, standing very stiffly. “It was I who killed Ashcomb Poor.”
My heart went down sickeningly—not that I blamed him at all, but at the thought of that splendid young fellow being subjected to the rigour of the law, his career spoiled, that proud head brought low in a prison cell. I don’t know what Madame Storey felt upon hearing his avowal. Her glance betrayed nothing.
“I never dreamed that they would dare arrest her,” the young man went on with a break in his voice, “or I should not have gone away. I can never forgive myself that.”
“Well, sit down,” said Madame Storey for the second time.
He shook his head. “I am on my way to police headquarters to give myself up.”
“Oh, but not so fast!” objected my employer. “There are many things to be considered. Meet Mr. Barron here. You will be at a better advantage.”
“I have no desire to make terms,” he said indifferently.
“Then let me make them for you. Or lay it to a woman’s vanity, if you like. I found you first. Let me hand you over to the district attorney’s office.”
“Just as you like,” he said.
Turning to me Madame Storey said: “Please call up the district attorney’s office and tell Mr. Barron that important new evidence has turned up in the Ashcomb Poor case. Ask him if he will bring Miss Dean up here.”
At the words “bring Miss Dean” a spasm of pain passed over the young man’s face.
“Do you think he will?” I murmured, thinking of Mr. Barron’s former objections.
“What he did once he can do again,” Madame Storey said lightly. “Curiosity is a strong, impelling force.” She added in a lower tone: “Mrs. Poor is at the Madagascar Hotel. Ask her to come, too. Then we’ll have all the material witnesses.”
Then to the aviator: “If you came here the moment you landed you haven’t had anything to eat.”
“I don’t require anything, thanks,” he muttered.
“Nonsense! You have a severe ordeal before you. You must prepare for it in any way that you can.”
To make a long story short I ordered in a meal. It arrived after I had finished my telephoning, and both Madame Storey and I saw to it that the young man did justice to the repast. Notwithstanding his situation he developed an excellent appetite. It struck me at the time that we were treating him more like a returned prodigal than a self-confessed murderer; but good looks such as his are like a magic talisman in the possessor’s favour. What would any woman have cared what he had done? How delightful it was to see a better colour return to his cheeks! And how grateful he was for cigarettes!
Mr. Barron brought two plain-clothes men and Miss Dean in his own automobile. We received them in the outer office, and Madame Storey insisted on allowing the girl to enter her room alone. When the door was opened and Philippa saw who was waiting within, a dreadful low cry broke from her that wrung our very hearts. Madame Storey closed the door behind her, and no one ever knew what took place between those two unhappy young persons.
While we waited Mr. Barron besieged Madame Storey with questions which she smilingly refused to answer, merely saying:
“Wait and see.”
They were not together long. Lieutenant Grantland opened the door. His face was stony. In a chair behind him the girl was weeping bitterly. It looked as if they had quarrelled.
He said to Madame Storey: “We must not keep you out of your own room.”
Madame Storey, Mr. Barron, and I went in. My employer, much against Mr. Barron’s wishes, insisted that the plain-clothes men be required to wait in the outer office.
“I fancy there are enough of us here to frustrate any attempt at an escape,” she said dryly.
Mrs. Batten was called in. She was in a great taking at the sight of Philippa and the young officer, but the former kissed her tenderly, and the young man shook hands with her.
When we all seated ourselves the place instantly took on the aspect of a court-room. I am sure I am quite safe in saying that every one of us—except possibly my inscrutable employer—was shaking with excitement. Our faces were pale and streaked with anxiety. Madame Storey sat at her table and I was in my usual place at her right. Mr. Barron sat at her left, while Miss Dean, Lieutenant Grantland, and Mrs. Batten faced us in that order.
Before anything was said there was a knock at the door, and upon being bidden to open it Eddie ushered in a heavily-shrouded figure that all knew for Mrs. Poor, though her face was invisible. I expect Eddie would have given some years of his youthful life to be allowed to remain, but a glance from Madame Storey sent him flying. Mr. Barron hastened to place a chair for Mrs. Poor next to Mrs. Batten. The young soldier arose and bowed stiffly. Philippa turned her head away from the newcomer with a painful blush.
Madame Storey said in a vo
ice devoid of all emotion: “Lieutenant Grantland wishes to make a statement.”
Grantland was still on his feet. He came to attention and said in a low, steady voice: “I wish to say that it was I who shot Ashcomb Poor.”
The widow started violently. One could imagine the piercing gaze she must have bent on the speaker through her veil. Philippa Dean covered her face with her hands, and Mrs. Batten began to weep audibly. Mr. Barron’s face was a study in astonishment and discomfiture, Madame Storey’s a mask.
Madame Storey said: “Please tell us the circumstances.”
“Wait a minute,” stammered the assistant district attorney. “It is my duty to inform you that anything you say may be used against you.”
“I quite understand that,” said Grantland.
“I must have a record of his statement,” went on Mr. Barron excitedly.
“Miss Brickley will take notes of everything that transpires,” said Madame Storey. “Please proceed, lieutenant.”
He spoke in a level, quiet voice, with eyes straight ahead, looking at none of us.
“I was calling on Miss Dean to whom I am—to whom I was engaged to be married. We were with Mrs. Batten in her sitting-room. Mr. Poor sent to Miss Dean to ask if she would write some letters for him. I had heard certain things—things that led me to suspect that this was merely a pretext. Anyway it was no part of her duties to look after his correspondence. I didn’t want her to go. But she persuaded me that it would be better for her to go. And she went. But when she left the room I became very uneasy. I followed her—down a passage, and across the main hall of the house. The hall was dark.
“The man was in a room off the hall—a library, I suppose. The door stood open, and from the hall I could see all that took place. Mr. Poor, with many apologies, was repeating his request that Miss Dean write some letters for him. He made believe his hand was cramped. But he looked at her in a way—in a way that made my blood hot. I think he had been drinking. I could see that Miss Dean was frightened. I was at the point of interfering then, but I heard her ask him to excuse her while she got a handkerchief, and she came out and ran upstairs. She did not see me in the hall.
“Well, I remained there watching him. The expression on his face as he sat there waiting for her to return drove me wild. I——”