Her brother, gazing indifferently in from the doorway, hardly noticed this look; but the reporter at his back did, though he failed to detect its penetrating quality.
“Your name is on the other side,” observed the detective as he drew away the string and turned the package over.
The smile which just lifted the corner of her lips was not in answer to this remark, but to her recognition of her employer’s handwriting in the words under her name: Send without opening. She had not misjudged him.
“The cover you may like to take off yourself,” suggested the officer, as he lifted the box out of its wrapper.
“Oh, I don’t mind. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in embroidered linen. Or perhaps that is not what you are looking for?”
No one answered. All were busy watching her whip off the lid and lift out the pile of sheets and pillow-cases with which the box was closely packed.
“Shall I unfold them?” she asked.
The detective nodded.
Taking out the topmost sheet, she shook it open. Then the next and the next till she reached the bottom of the box. Nothing of a criminating nature came to light. The box as well as its contents was without mystery of any kind. This was not an unexpected result of course, but the smile with which she began to refold the pieces and throw them back into the box, revealed one of her dimples which was almost as dangerous to the casual observer as when it revealed both.
“There,” she exclaimed, “you see! Household linen exactly as I said. Now may I go home?”
“Certainly, Miss Strange.”
The detective stole a sly glance at the reporter. She was not going in for the horrors then after all.
But the reporter abated nothing of his knowing air, for while she spoke of going, she made no move towards doing so, but continued to look about the room till her glances finally settled on a long dark curtain shutting off an adjoining room.
“There’s where she lies, I suppose,” she feelingly exclaimed. “And not one of you knows who killed her. Somehow, I cannot understand that. Why don’t you know when that’s what you’re hired for?” The innocence with which she uttered this was astonishing. The detective began to look sheepish and the reporter turned aside to hide his smile. Whether in another moment either would have spoken no one can say, for, with a mock consciousness of having said something foolish, she caught up her parasol from the table and made a start for the door.
But of course she looked back.
“I was wondering,” she recommenced, with a half wistful, half speculative air, “whether I should ask to have a peep at the place where it all happened.”
The reporter chuckled behind the pencil-end he was chewing, but the officer maintained his solemn air, for which act of self-restraint he was undoubtedly grateful when in another minute she gave a quick impulsive shudder not altogether assumed, and vehemently added: “But I couldn’t stand the sight; no, I couldn’t! I’m an awful coward when it comes to things like that. Nothing in all the world would induce me to look at the woman or her room. But I should like—” here both her dimples came into play though she could not be said exactly to smile—“just one little look upstairs, where he went poking about so long without any fear it seems of being interrupted. Ever since I’ve read about it I have seen, in my mind, a picture of his wicked figure sneaking from room to room, tearing open drawers and flinging out the contents of closets just to find a little money—a little, little money! I shall not sleep tonight just for wondering how those high up attic rooms really look.”
Who could dream that back of this display of mingled childishness and audacity there lay hidden purpose, intellect, and a keen knowledge of human nature. Not the two men who listened to this seemingly irresponsible chatter. To them she was a child to be humoured and humour her they did. The dainty feet which had already found their way to that gloomy staircase were allowed to ascend, followed it is true by those of the officer who did not dare to smile back at the reporter because of the brother’s watchful and none too conciliatory eye.
At the stair head she paused to look back.
“I don’t see those horrible marks which the papers describe as running all along the lower hall and up these stairs.”
“No, Miss Strange; they have gradually been rubbed out, but you will find some still showing on these upper floors.”
“Oh! oh! where? You frighten me—frighten me horribly! But—but—if you don’t mind, I should like to see.”
Why should not a man on a tedious job amuse himself? Piloting her over to the small room in the rear, he pointed down at the boards. She gave one look and then stepped gingerly in.
“Just look!” she cried; “a whole string of marks going straight from door to window. They have no shape, have they,—just blotches? I wonder why one of them is so much larger than the rest?”
This was no new question. It was one which everybody who went into the room was sure to ask, there was such a difference in the size and appearance of the mark nearest the window. The reason—well, minds were divided about that, and no one had a satisfactory theory. The detective therefore kept discreetly silent.
This did not seem to offend Miss Strange. On the contrary it gave her an opportunity to babble away to her heart’s content.
“One, two, three, four, five, six,” she counted, with a shudder at every count. “And one of them bigger than the others.” She might have added, “It is the trail of one foot, and strangely, intermingled at that,” but she did not, though we may be quite sure that she noted the fact. “And where, just where did the old wallet fall? Here? or here?”
She had moved as she spoke, so that in uttering the last “here,” she stood directly before the window. The surprise she received there nearly made her forget the part she was playing. From the character of the light in the room, she had expected, on looking out, to confront a near-by wall, but not a window in that wall. Yet that was what she saw directly facing her from across the old-fashioned alley separating this house from its neighbour; twelve unshuttered and uncurtained panes through which she caught a darkened view of a room almost as forlorn and devoid of furniture as the one in which she then stood.
When quite sure of herself, she let a certain portion of her surprise appear.
“Why, look!” she cried, “if you can’t see right in next door! What a lonesome-looking place! From its desolate appearance I should think the house quite empty.”
“And it is. That’s the old Shaffer homestead. It’s been empty for a year.”
“Oh, empty!” And she turned away, with the most inconsequent air in the world, crying out as her name rang up the stair, “There’s Arthur calling. I suppose he thinks I’ve been here long enough. I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you, officer. I really shouldn’t have slept a wink tonight, if I hadn’t been given a peep at these rooms, which I had imagined so different.” And with one additional glance over her shoulder, that seemed to penetrate both windows and the desolate space beyond, she ran quickly out and down in response to her brother’s reiterated call.
“Drive quickly!—as quickly as the law allows, to Hiram Brown’s office in Duane Street.”
Arrived at the address named, she went in alone to see Mr. Brown. He was her father’s lawyer and a family friend.
Hardly waiting for his affectionate greeting, she cried out quickly. “Tell me how I can learn anything about the old Shaffer house in Seventeenth Street. Now, don’t look so surprised. I have very good reasons for my request and—and—I’m in an awful hurry.”
“But—”
“I know, I know; there’s been a dreadful tragedy next door to it; but it’s about the Shaffer house itself I want some information. Has it an agent, a—”
“Of course it has an agent, and here is his name.”
Mr. Brown presented her with a card on which he had hastily written both name and address.
She thanked him, dropped him a mocking curtsey full of charm, whisper
ed “Don’t tell father,” and was gone.
Her manner to the man she next interviewed was very different. As soon as she saw him she subsided into her usual society manner. With just a touch of the conceit of the successful debutante, she announced herself as Miss Strange of Seventy-second Street. Her business with him was in regard to the possible renting of the Shaffer house. She had an old lady friend who was desirous of living downtown.
In passing through Seventeenth Street, she had noticed that the old Shaffer house was standing empty and had been immediately struck with the advantages it possessed for her elderly friend’s occupancy. Could it be that the house was for rent? There was no sign on it to that effect, but—etc.
His answer left her nothing to hope for.
“It is going to be torn down,” he said.
“Oh, what a pity!” she exclaimed. “Real colonial, isn’t it! I wish I could see the rooms inside before it is disturbed. Such doors and such dear old-fashioned mantelpieces as it must have! I just dote on the Colonial. It brings up such pictures of the old days; weddings, you know, and parties;—all so different from ours and so much more interesting.”
Is it the chance shot that tells? Sometimes. Violet had no especial intention in what she said save as a prelude to a pending request, but nothing could have served her purpose better than that one word, wedding. The agent laughed and giving her his first indulgent look, remarked genially:
“Romance is not confined to those ancient times. If you were to enter that house today you would come across evidences of a wedding as romantic as any which ever took place in all the seventy odd years of its existence. A man and a woman were married there day before yesterday who did their first courting under its roof forty years ago. He has been married twice and she once in the interval; but the old love held firm and now at the age of sixty and over they have come together to finish their days in peace and happiness. Or so we will hope.”
“Married! married in that house and on the day that—”
She caught herself up in time. He did not notice the break.
“Yes, in memory of those old days of courtship, I suppose. They came here about five, got the keys, drove off, went through the ceremony in that empty house, returned the keys to me in my own apartment, took the steamer for Naples, and were on the sea before midnight. Do you not call that quick work as well as highly romantic?”
“Very.” Miss Strange’s cheek had paled. It was apt to when she was greatly excited. “But I don’t understand,” she added, the moment after. “How could they do this and nobody know about it? I should have thought it would have got into the papers.”
“They are quiet people. I don’t think they told their best friends. A simple announcement in the next day’s journals testified to the fact of their marriage, but that was all. I would not have felt at liberty to mention the circumstances myself, if the parties were not well on their way to Europe.”
“Oh, how glad I am that you did tell me! Such a story of constancy and the hold which old associations have upon sensitive minds! But—”
“Why, Miss? What’s the matter? You look very much disturbed.”
“Don’t you remember? Haven’t you thought? Something else happened that very day and almost at the same time on that block. Something very dreadful—”
“Mrs. Doolittle’s murder?”
“Yes. It was as near as next door, wasn’t it? Oh, if this happy couple had known—”
“But fortunately they didn’t. Nor are they likely to, till they reach the other side. You needn’t fear that their honeymoon will be spoiled that way.”
“But they may have heard something or seen something before leaving the street. Did you notice how the gentleman looked when he returned you the keys?”
“I did, and there was no cloud on his satisfaction.”
“Oh, how you relieve me!” One—two dimples made their appearance in Miss Strange’s fresh, young cheeks. “Well! I wish them joy. Do you mind telling me their names? I cannot think of them as actual persons without knowing their names.”
“The gentleman was Constantin Amidon; the lady, Marian Shaffer. You will have to think of them now as Mr. and Mrs. Amidon.”
“And I will. Thank you, Mr. Hutton, thank you very much. Next to the pleasure of getting the house for my friend, is that of hearing this charming bit of news its connection.”
She held out her hand and, as he took it, remarked:
“They must have had a clergyman and witnesses.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I wish I had been one of the witnesses,” she sighed sentimentally.
“They were two old men.”
“Oh, no! Don’t tell me that.”
“Fogies; nothing less.”
“But the clergyman? He must have been young. Surely there was some one there capable of appreciating the situation?”
“I can’t say about that; I did not see the clergyman.”
“Oh, well! it doesn’t matter.” Miss Strange’s manner was as nonchalant as it was charming. “We will think of him as being very young.”
And with a merry toss of her head she flitted away.
But she sobered very rapidly upon entering her limousine.
“Hello!”
“Ah, is that you?”
“Yes, I want a Marconi sent.”
“A Marconi?”
“Yes, to the Cretic, which left dock the very night in which we are so deeply interested.”
“Good. Whom to? The Captain?”
“No, to a Mrs. Constantin Amidon. But first be sure there is such a passenger.”
“Mrs.! What idea have you there?”
“Excuse my not stating over the telephone. The message is to be to this effect. Did she at any time immediately before or after her marriage to Mr. Amidon get a glimpse of any one in the adjoining house? No remarks, please. I use the telephone because I am not ready to explain myself. If she did, let her send a written description to you of that person as soon as she reaches the Azores.”
“You surprise me. May I not call or hope for a line from you early tomorrow?”
“I shall be busy till you get your answer.”
He hung up the receiver. He recognized the resolute tone.
But the time came when the pending explanation was fully given to him. An answer had been returned from the steamer, favourable to Violet’s hopes. Mrs. Amidon had seen such a person and would send a full description of the same at the first opportunity. It was news to fill Violet’s heart with pride; the filament of a clue which had led to this great result had been so nearly invisible and had felt so like nothing in her grasp.
To her employer she described it as follows:
“When I hear or read of a case which contains any baffling features, I am apt to feel some hidden chord in my nature thrill to one fact in it and not to any of the others. In this case the single fact which appealed to my imagination was the dropping of the stolen wallet in that upstairs room. Why did the guilty man drop it? and why, having dropped it, did he not pick it up again? but one answer seemed possible. He had heard or seen something at the spot where it fell which not only alarmed him but sent him in flight from the house.”
“Very good; and did you settle to your own mind the nature of that sound or that sight?”
“I did.” Her manner was strangely businesslike. No show of dimples now. “Satisfied that if any possibility remained of my ever doing this, it would have to be on the exact place of this occurrence or not at all, I embraced your suggestion and visited the house.”
“And that room no doubt.”
“And that room. Women, somehow, seem to manage such things.”
“So I’ve noticed, Miss Strange. And what was the result of your visit? What did you discover there?”
“This: that one of the blood spots marking the criminal’s steps through the room was decidedly more pronounced than the rest; and, what was even more impo
rtant, that the window out of which I was looking had its counterpart in the house on the opposite side of the alley. In gazing through the one I was gazing through the other; and not only that, but into the darkened area of the room beyond. Instantly I saw how the latter fact might be made to explain the former one. But before I say how, let me ask if it is quite settled among you that the smears on the floor and stairs mark the passage of the criminal’s footsteps!”
“Certainly; and very bloody feet they must have been too. His shoes—or rather his one shoe—for the proof is plain that only the right one left its mark—must have become thoroughly saturated to carry its traces so far.”
“Do you think that any amount of saturation would have done this? Or, if you are not ready to agree to that, that a shoe so covered with blood could have failed to leave behind it some hint of its shape, some imprint, however faint, of heel or toe? But nowhere did it do this. We see a smear—and that is all.”
“You are right, Miss Strange; you are always right. And what do you gather from this?”
She looked to see how much he expected from her, and, meeting an eye not quite as free from ironic suggestion as his words had led her to expect, faltered a little as she proceeded to say:
“My opinion is a girl’s opinion, but such as it is you have the right to have it. From the indications mentioned I could draw but this conclusion: that the blood which accompanied the criminal’s footsteps was not carried through the house by his shoes;—he wore no shoes; he did not even wear stockings; probably he had none. For reasons which appealed to his judgment, he went about his wicked work barefoot; and it was the blood from his own veins and not from those of his victim which made the trail we have followed with so much interest. Do you forget those broken beads;—how he kicked them about and stamped upon them in his fury? One of them pierced the ball of his foot, and that so sharply that it not only spurted blood but kept on bleeding with every step he took. Otherwise, the trail would have been lost after his passage up the stairs.”
“Fine!” There was no irony in the bureau-chief’s eye now. “You are progressing, Miss Strange. Allow me, I pray, to kiss your hand. It is a liberty I have never taken, but one which would greatly relieve my present stress of feeling.”
The Golden Slipper Page 6