‘Very well, you take the letter along, you may puzzle it out. I’ll tell Gill to keep it under his hat. I rather fancy he’ll think it tells pretty strongly against Ramsay. He’s felt mighty sorry for Alli for a long time. He has an old-fashioned love for her. Chivalric, you know, and all that. I believe he’d be glad Balfour died if it ensured her happiness.’
‘With Ramsay?’
‘Oh, Preston doesn’t think Ramsay was the criminal at all. He says he suspects some intruder that none of us knows. Some enemy of Philip Balfour, unknown to the rest of us. Of course, that may be. It’s hard to know which way to look.’
‘The first thing to do, John, is to discover for certain who is the Lover of Justice. Anonymous letters are reputed to be easy to straighten out. But they are far from that. If they are clever, it takes a very clever wit to untangle them. I’ll have a go at this; it may fall to pieces in my hands and it may stump me utterly.’
‘When have they decided to hold the funeral services?’
‘Sunday evening, I believe. At the mortuary chapel. Balfour was not a churchman and he left explicit directions as to his funeral. I shall not attend, as I want that time to do a little good-natured searching of some few places. I daresay there’ll be a large gathering.’
‘Yes, I daresay. Balfour was rather popular with those who knew him well. And while he had no real or known enemies, he did have acquaintances who will not grieve overmuch at his passing.’
‘And we’ll find the book. I’m positive that affair will end happily. But if not, whose loss will it be?’
‘That’s a complicated matter. Wait till I learn my lawyers’ opinions. If you’re going up to the Balfour house now, I’ll go along with you.’
CHAPTER VIII
THE PASTED LETTER AND ANOTHER
WHEN Fleming Stone and John Sewell reached the Balfour home, they found Manton and Burnet there.
Several relatives and friends were house guests, and callers were in one room and another, waiting for some member of the household.
Ramsay was around, acting as a sort of major-domo and making excuses for Alli and Guy, who refused to see anyone.
Fleming Stone collected the two policemen and Ramsay and, with Sewell, went to the safe room to conduct a conference.
‘Mr Sewell has received a communication,’ he said, ‘which he will show you. I think you should be informed of it, Mr Ramsay, but not necessarily Mrs Balfour, as it may be a hoax. So many misguided people write what may almost be called fan-mail to those involved in a criminal case. Show it up, John.’
Sewell laid the letter on the table at which they all sat, and the Inspector eagerly picked it up.
‘For Heaven’s sake!’ he exclaimed, ‘what’s all this?’
With Burnet looking over his shoulder, he scanned the pasted words and then read it again, aloud.
Ramsay listened, unmoved, to the part about Preston Gill’s innocence; then as his own name and Alli’s were brought in, he showed an expression of fear. His eyes stared and blinked alternately. His lips quivered and his hands clenched themselves tightly together.
‘Who sent you that letter?’ he exclaimed, looking at Sewell as if he were to blame.
‘I’ve no idea,’ the book man replied. ‘It reads as if from one of Gill’s friends, and I’m not sure but it is just that. The reference to you and Mrs Balfour is absurd, for she was here in her home and I was here, too, at the time Mr Balfour was killed.’
‘And you all know where I was,’ Ramsay said. ‘I was right there in Mr Sewell’s shop, and I did not kill Mr Balfour, though I have no way to prove my statement.’
‘This letter may be of some help.’ Manton spoke a little dubiously. ‘What do you make of the thing, Mr Stone?’
‘Not much of anything as yet. Mr Sewell and I noticed that the notepaper is merely a fly-leaf torn out of a book, but that isn’t very enlightening. The words are cut from a morning paper, and were pasted on by someone accustomed to the use of a pastebrush. It may well be from some young lady of Mr Gill’s acquaintance who hopes to help him by suggesting other ways to look.’
‘Pretty quick work!’ declared Burnet. ‘It isn’t yet twenty-four hours since the murder took place.’
‘It was in the papers this morning,’ Stone reminded him. ‘There are always busybodies ready to jump at a chance for a little excitement. Do you gather anything from the note, Mr Ramsay, that gives you the faintest idea of the sender?’
‘Not the faintest. But it seems to me rather an enemy of mine than a friend of Mr Gill’s.’
‘That’s what I think,’ Sewell declared. ‘But we must find out for sure. Can’t you detectives track down the note by sheer ingenuity?’
‘The detective instinct is useful,’ Burnet told him, ‘but it won’t work miracles. I defy anybody to trace the sender of that letter, with no more information than the letter itself.’
He stared at Stone with a suggestion of truculence.
‘Oh, I think we can manage it sooner or later,’ the investigator said. ‘But it will take time. You see, with all that pasting process it stands to reason there must be some fingerprints. It would be difficult to paste those tiny scraps with gloves on, and if ungloved, there probably are prints, even though invisible to us now.’
‘And what earthly good would prints do us if we’ve no suspicion whose fingers made them?’
‘Remember, we’ve only just seen this note,’ and Stone took possession of it. ‘If you’ll leave it with me for a few hours, I don’t promise a revelation, but I think I can make some progress toward it.’
‘Take it, for all of me,’ retorted Burnet. ‘You want it, Inspector?’
‘Not till Mr Stone gets through with it,’ Manton said. ‘Then I want it to file, if nothing more.’
‘Let’s think it out a little,’ Stone suggested. ‘Isn’t it probable that not many of Mr Gill’s friends know Mrs Balfour or Mr Ramsay? Isn’t it certain that whoever sent that letter does know that those two are friendly?’ A smile of apology to Keith Ramsay took the sting out of Stone’s speech. ‘And isn’t it likely that Mr Gill can tell us which of his acquaintances are familiar with the details of the Balfour ménage? I’m not sure, just yet, that we want to show this letter to Mr Gill, but we can question him blindly about it.’
‘Of course we must hunt the careful paster,’ and Manton looked rather hopeless at the thought. ‘And we must find out if any of Gill’s friends had it in for Mrs Balfour or Mr Ramsay. What about the boy? Young Balfour, I mean.’
‘There are lots of possibilities.’ Stone looked pleased. ‘I hope more curious letters will come. This Lover of Justice may be of real help to us as well as to Gill. Then I’ll keep the letter for the present; call for it when you want it, Inspector. Don’t mention it to Mrs Balfour just yet. I think she should be allowed to rest and be free from police anxieties until after the funeral. Of course, if there’s any pressing necessity to consult her, we can do so. Otherwise let’s try to leave her in peace. The guests in the house, the funeral, the responsibilities, leave her little spare time. She seems very much alone, but perhaps some relative will stay with her for a while.’
‘Not much of anything will be done until after the funeral,’ prophesied Inspector Manton. ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday and then the funeral in the evening—what can we do?’
‘I expect to put in some work,’ Burnet said, with a superior air. ‘There’s always something to be done in the way of gathering points here and there. I’m not through with the servants yet, either. The two chauffeurs may be able to tell us something. Did Mr Balfour use his cars much, Mr Ramsay?’
‘Not very much,’ Ramsay returned. ‘When he went to see Mr Sewell, he usually walked. If he went down to the Public Library, or to more distant bookshops, he went in one of his cars. Mrs Balfour used them more than her husband did.’
Then the Inspector summarily dismissed all present except Fleming Stone.
‘What about this letter, Mr Stone?’ he said, as he returned from
fastening the door.
‘What do you think? I can say frankly, I’ve no definite idea about it as yet. Give me a cipher message or a cryptogram and I can usually unravel it at once. But this word-pasting business is the hardest kind of puzzle to solve. Imagination pushes to the fore and sometimes runs away with you. I don’t think it is from a girl friend of Gill’s, the wording is too sophisticated. But of course the paster had to take such words as were available. Still, with all that, whoever made up the message must have known about the friendship between Mrs Balfour and Mr Ramsay. I spoke of the matter before him without apology because, to my mind, that friendship may be the pivotal argument. Both he and she practically admit their affection, and while we can’t applaud it, yet it is there and must be accepted in our calculations. Now whether the theft of the rare book is connected with the murder or not, I haven’t yet made up my mind. But I can’t think they are two entirely disconnected crimes.’
‘Nor I. Nor do I think Gill implicated in either one. I did, but I feel now that Gill had no motive in the world for the murder, and as to the theft, I can’t conceive of Sewell putting such implicit confidence in a man who would steal that treasure of a book. And yet, my experience has taught me that things and deeds we can’t conceive of often do occur, and afterward we wonder why we thought they couldn’t.’
‘Right enough, but I’ve known John Sewell for a long time, and I’ve always been impressed by his power of sizing up people with astonishing insight and intuition.’
‘That’s something, of course. I don’t know the man at all, but if he’s like that, then Gill may be out of it. You don’t think it was a young lady friend of Gill’s that pasted up the letter?’
‘I’m almost sure not. A young girl, anxious for Gill’s welfare, wouldn’t go about it that way. She would consult her people or some wise friend. I think the paster, as we call him, adopted that role of a young girl in order to divert our suspicions and stir up suspicion of Mrs Balfour. Or Ramsay, but I incline to its being an enemy of the lady. If, however, it was the murderer himself, then there was enmity toward both Mr and Mrs Balfour, and Mr Ramsay was merely caught in the meshes of the net. I have never held the opinion that Ramsay committed the murder, though I must admit the seriousness of the evidence against him. The invention of the masked man is not plausible, and yet, were he guilty, something like that would be imperative. Now, Inspector, I want a session alone with Mrs Balfour. I will tell you the results, if any, but I want a tête-à-tête interview. Won’t you go and find her, and if she will see me, bring her back here?’
‘Of course I will, and I make no doubt she’ll come.’
A few moments later Alli Balfour appeared at the door. Stone greeted her gently and offered a seat.
‘I know it is a busy and a sorrowful day for you,’ he began; ‘and I would not have troubled you but that I want a little important information which you may or may not be able to give me. Will you look at this letter?’
He handed her the pasted letter, watching her intently all the while.
She looked at the scrawled address, and said, ‘I certainly don’t recognize that handwriting anyway.’
She drew the letter from the envelope, and though watching closely, Stone was only almost, not quite, sure that she gave a little gasp of surprise.
In fact, he concluded he must have been mistaken, for her features changed instantly and she scanned the pasted words, while a puzzled expression appeared on her face.
‘What a queer letter,’ she said. ‘What’s it about?’
‘Read it, please,’ and as she obeyed, Stone again tried to catch the meaning of her bewildered look.
‘It suggests nothing to you?’ he asked, disappointedly.
‘Why, no. Ought it to?’
‘I only thought—hoped, rather, you might know someone who used that method instead of writing.’
‘I? Oh, no, indeed. Why would anyone do it? It must require time and patience.’
‘Go on and read it, please. Take time to finish it.’
Alli read the thing through. She grew paler as she went on, but she made no pause until she reached the end.
She handed it back to Stone, with a dignified gesture.
‘That is untrue,’ she said, calmly. ‘I never went to Mr Sewell’s shop in the evening and I was here at home all the time last night. Do you consider anonymous letters?’
‘Not as a rule, but in this case we have so little to work on, I must let no chance escape me.’
‘Tell me, Mr Stone, do you think that Keith Ramsay killed my husband?’
‘My own personal convictions tell me no. But there is much reason to suspect him, and very little reason to suspect anyone else. Therefore, whatever my own opinion may be, I have to investigate thoroughly the possibilities of Mr Ramsay’s connection with the affair.’
‘Yes, I understand that, but I am disappointed to hear you say there is no other suspect. What about the person who stole the book? I can assure you Mr Ramsay never would have done that, for he was as interested as Mr Balfour himself in getting it for our library. Quite aside from the fact that Mr Ramsay is incapable of such a crime, he was desperately anxious that Mr Balfour should get it and did all he could to help. And as to Mr Ramsay being the murderer, it is out of the question.’
‘But we must have proof that it is out of the question. I speak to you frankly, Mrs Balfour, because I want so much to get evidence against someone other than Ramsay. That is what we must have. As it stands, we know that Mr Balfour and Mr Ramsay went to the Sewell place together, and except for Ramsay’s unsupported story, we have no knowledge that any other human being entered the shop until the police came. This masked man must be found, or we cannot expect the law to accept a story which is just what a guilty man might invent.’
‘I do realize that. That is the situation I want you to clear up. Now, you think, and I am sure you are right, the book was taken in a kidnapping sense. I think the thief means to demand ransom money. I think he will not delay long his letter to that effect. Can we not wait a few days to hear from him?’
‘You have given your heart to Keith Ramsay?’
‘I have. I’m sure you will understand my telling you that I fought against it, but it was too strong for me. We realized how wrong we were and we decided he must go away. As you know, he confessed to Mr Balfour the situation, but you do not know that when Mr Balfour flouted the idea of his leaving, he said he would rather I should go than his efficient librarian. Mr Ramsay didn’t tell me this at first, but he concluded to do so, that I might better realize the way my husband felt about the matter. I don’t think for a minute that Philip would have sent me away rather than Keith, but he used that as an argument in favour of Keith’s staying. Mr Balfour was a selfish man, and since Mr Ramsay was such a valuable aid, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. I know Mr Ramsay is innocent of any crime, but as you put it, it seems to me he is in great danger. So you must free him from suspicion. You must! Mr Sewell thinks highly of your powers, so do many other of my friends. Now won’t you use your most ingenious, most subtle efforts to find the criminal? Ask me anything you like—about my husband’s son, Guy—or about Mr Sewell’s assistant, Preston Gill—they seem to me possible suspects. And don’t think me cruel to Guy. He is weak and easily led. He has fallen in with a bad set and though I would stand up for him against my own suspicions, I cannot do so when Keith Ramsay is involved.’
‘I do understand and I thank you for your frankness and your confidence in me. Now, suppose we do nothing further until after the funeral. Let us wait till Monday morning before we speak of it again. I can’t answer for the police people, of course, but I’m sure, if you request it, they won’t interview you again until after the funeral. Do you propose to ask some relative or friend to live with you?’
‘No, I prefer not to. My position as Philip Balfour’s widow gives me a right to live as I choose. The presence of my stepson supplies the need of a resident relative, and Mr Ramsay must stay long
enough to look after the library until I decide about selling it. It is too soon yet to consider those matters and I shall allow myself a little time to recover from the shock and excitement of this tragedy before I take up my life again. Of course, I must obey the wishes of the police, but I want assurance of your continued interest and effort in the case.’
‘That, of course. Now I may not speak to you again about these things before Monday. Certainly not, unless something new turns up.’
‘I am, naturally, much disturbed about that anonymous letter that came to Mr Sewell. I had hoped no one knew of the friendship between Mr Ramsay and myself.’
‘Don’t worry too much about that. I think that letter will be a help to us, not an obstacle. And if the book kidnappers send us a ransom letter soon, we may polish things off quickly. I hope they show up soon, for whatever their message or however hard to decipher, we shall have something to work on.’
Fleming Stone’s hope was fulfilled.
During Sunday morning, as he sat thinking over the Balfour case, a letter was brought to him which proved to be from Alli Balfour.
A mere note from her said that she was enclosing a letter that had just come to her. She added that she had read it, but wanted to make no decision regarding it until she could see Stone on Monday morning.
Stone looked at it curiously.
It seemed so innocuous in outer appearance, he could scarcely believe it was from the thief.
An oblong envelope of moderate size, addressed simply, in good-looking handwriting, stamped properly and mailed at a downtown station. Fleming Stone always noticed the way a stamp was affixed. If out of alignment with the edges of the envelope he set the writer down as a careless or untidy person.
This one, however, was so meticulously placed that it seemed as if the one who put it on had taken especial care.
The paper was white and of good quality, though not superfine. There was no stationer’s mark under the flap of the envelope and no return address on it.
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